the Muppet Contracts
by Lucinda
Summary: When Angel Investigations takes the case of a murdered acting agent, they have no idea what sort of people they're about to meet. And things seem to be getting more complicated.
1. Meeting Miss Piggy

author: Lucinda

rated y-14?

main characters: Miss Piggy, Wesley Wyndham-Price

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Miss Piggy is a muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Wesley is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI in that they aren't working for W&H (because the evil law-firm are the bad guys) but that time has passed since Wes started working with Angel. The Muppet Theater has been closed.

Wesley tapped on the door, feeling a familiar tension at the back of his skull. It had been a very long day, and was well on it's way to being a very long night. Currently, they had discovered a rather dead acting agent, and had agreed to split up, notify his clients, and try to determine if any of the actors might have had something to do with the man's death.

Pieces of him had been found in little boxes, neatly stacked in the office. That sort of thing completely ruled out 'accidental death' or 'natural causes'.

"Who is it?" The woman sounded rather annoyed. "Don't you know what time it is?"

With a sigh, Wesley started his speech again. This was the third actor that he'd talked to today, and it was getting rather tedious. "Have you been using the services of the agent Kent Lanomer?"

"Kent? What does that lame-brain have to do with anything?"

The door was opened forcefully, revealing the fuzzy purple robed speaker. Her blond hair was only rib-cage high, causing Wesley to blink in surprise. He blinked again at the pink ears sticking up among the curls. Actually, she bore a rather strong resemblance to a pig...

"Err... he's dead." Wincing at the bluntness of those words, Wesley sighed. "Perhaps I could step inside?"

"My agent is dead?" The short woman repeated, tugging him inside the apartment. "Sit down and explain."

"I'm terribly sorry that you had to find out like this, ma'am, but Kent Lanomer was found dead earlier today. He was in his office," Wesley barely managed to keep himself from adding 'mostly' to his explanation. "He was murdered."

"And how does this involve moi? You'd better not be hoping to exploit my inevitable trauma..." She reclined over the arm of her chair, one arm thrown dramatically over her forehead.

Wesley found himself blinking once again. A tiny corner of his mind noted that for a pig, she was actually sort of pretty... He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts out of his head. He had to focus, not admire the woman's figure. Cautiously, he offered, "Perhaps you may have known if he had any enemies?"

She seemed to glance off to the right, muttering, "Did the man have any enemies? If you'd ever met him..."

"Pardon?"

Looking back at him the blond pig sighed, "There were plenty of people annoyed at Kent. Irritated by the cut he demanded, annoyed at the jobs he found us, angry that they'd lost money to him at cards." Pausing to bat her eyelashes, she asked, "Are you certain it wasn't accidental?"

"One does not accidentally end up dead and neatly packed in one hundred and seven boxes, each tied with a black ribbon and closed with a wax seal bearing a number thirteen," Wesley replied, trying not to snap.

"I guess that does rule out accidental death," she admitted. "Maybe I'd best check on the Count... Make sure he's still on his medication..."

"Miss Piggy, have you been satisfied with the parts that you've had lately?" Wesley asked, feeling just a little nervous.

"The last one had its down side. The singing was fine, the tight red outfit wasn't too bad, the little blond tart glaring at me on the set..." With a small shrug, she concluded, "You might want to look into her."

Scratching down a few notes, he glanced at her. "Are you in contact with any of the other actors who used Mr. Lanomer as their agent?"

"Some of us used to work at a theater before it was closed down due to some new safety codes. We've known each other for years..." She shook her head again. "Maybe we can do that again, it was more fun than doing commercials."

"Who ran the theater?" Wesley asked, wondering if it might be a useful avenue to investigate.

"Kermie and Scooter did," She reached into a drawer and pulled out a crumpled card, scorched along one edge. "Here, this was one of our cards."

Looking at the pale blue paper, Wesley read 'Muppet Theater - sketch comedy and special guest appeara' before the side had been burned into illegibility. The card had contact numbers for Kermit. J. Frogg and Scooter Dee, both of which were probably outdated.

"Thank you, Miss Piggy. This might be of help." Handing her one of the cards for Angel Investigations, he asked, "You will contact us if you think of anything else that might be useful, or if you hear anything?"

For several moments, Miss Piggy stared thoughtfully at the card. "You've met PePe?"

Deciding not to ask, Wesley repeated what had become the standard answer to any commentary about the logo that Cordelia had designed. "I've been told that it's supposed to be a stylized angel. One of the other members of our team designed it, and we decided not to argue with her."

"At least she's not trying to make a living as an artist," she murmured. "Of course I'll call if I hear anything."

As he politely excused himself, Wesley wondered if she'd really call if she heard anything. He also found himself wondering who or perhaps what PePe was if she thought of him on seeing the logo. However things would unfold, he had the feeling that he hadn't seen the last of Miss Piggy.

end Muppet Contracts: Meeting Miss Piggy


	2. Kermit and Cordelia

author: Lucinda

rated y-14?

part of the 'Muppet Contracts' series.

main characters: Kermit the Frog, Cordelia Chase

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Kermit is a muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Cordelia is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI in that they aren't working for W&H (because the evil law-firm are the bad guys) but that time has passed since Wes started working with Angel. The Muppet Theater has been closed.

Kermit had been relaxing in the sun for a while. Some of the commercials that his agent had found were rather stressful, both in terms of what they wanted him to do and in terms of who he'd be working with. Too many people looked at him and saw some sort of trained beast instead of a thinking person that just happened to not be human.

That was why he had this pond. The house wasn't much, but the large pond was the perfect place to relax. Cool, murky water filled with fish, snails, and ordinary frogs, edged with cattails on the west and holding scattered lily pads. This was home, not the little run-down house where he kept the paperwork and contact information, the telephone and his computer.

What else could be expected from a frog anyhow?

In the distance, he could hear cars on the road, engines rumbling, exhaust rattling, horns honking. One of them turned, tires crunching on the gravel of his property.

That didn't make much sense - who'd be visiting him? His friends normally called first, or invited him over to their places. After all, just because this place was perfect for himself didn't mean that most people enjoyed it very much. It wasn't the right time of year for Girl-scout cookies, thankfully. Last year he'd ended up getting so many that he'd been in danger of getting quite fat. He couldn't imagine any sort of traveling salesman staying after they got a look at the house.

Rising to his feet, Kermit looked at the house. There was a dark-haired woman looking at the house, arms folded over her chest. She had the same sort of arrogant dignity as Piggy - the one that insisted she was better than a place like this, and deserved more from the world. And he'd never seen her before in his life.

"An actor lives in a dump like this?" The woman's voice was dismayed as she stared at the little house. The paint had peeled, the windows were dingy, the steps crooked, and the chimney had crumbled a bit at the top. "I can't imagine why."

"Have you priced real estate in this area?" Kermit asked, walking towards her. "Nothing's cheap."

She spun around, one hand fumbling in her purse for something, the other raised in a clear blocking position. Her wide eyes and the startled yelp made it clear that she hadn't been expecting a voice outside. "Who… what? You look like a frog. A giant talking frog."

Kermit nodded, still wondering why this woman was here on his property. "That's right."

"Biology class wasn't my idea. I flunked it anyhow…" The woman took a step backwards, still fumbling in her purse. "I'm going to kill Angel for this, if I make it back."

"Instead of talking about angels and biology, could you explain why you're here, Miss? I don't get too many visitors, and most of them call ahead," Kermit decided not to get any closer. Who knew what might lurk in the depths of her purse? His experiences at the theater suggested anything from old gum, keys, and spare change to rubber chickens, bowling pins, and cannon balls. And if strange scientific geniuses had a hand in the purse, it could be anything, but it probably wouldn't do exactly what it was supposed to do. Considering some of what Bunsen and Beaker had made, he took a small step backwards.

"You're Kermit T. Frogg? Who worked with Kent Lanomer?" The woman's voice was still tense, and her hand hadn't come out of the purse yet.

Nodding, Kermit wondered why she was asking about his agent. "Yes."

"Nothing in the records said anything about giant frogs," the woman muttered. "Maybe even demon frogs, considering my luck. Angel is really in trouble for this one."

"Could you just tell me what is going on?" Kermit demanded, bouncing in place just a little. He hadn't gone any higher than her shoulders; that was hardly leaving the ground at all.

"Wow." Blinking, she dropped her purse. Things spilled out, including two spray cans and a sharp little stick. "Lanomer's dead. Very dead of painful causes."

"When did that happen?" Kermit shook his head, shoulders slumping. "Maybe you'd rather continue this inside? It's not much, but there's a couple chairs."

"I'm Cordelia Chase, and I'm with Angel Investigations," the woman said. "And I think inside might be better."

It wasn't long before Kermit was perched on his old director's chair, while Cordelia very gingerly sat on the faded recliner. He gave her a few moments to fidget before he spoke again. "What happened to Kent? I know he rubbed a few people the wrong way, but I didn't expect anybody to do something about it."

"Someone put him into a whole bunch of little boxes, each one numbered and sealed. It was gross," Miss Chase shivered.

"Numbered? Regular counting, or with assembly instructions?" Kermit shivered when he realized that he was thinking of some of his friends and their habits. The Count with his counting and labeling everything with as many numbers as he could, the few times that Beaker had been told to take things apart, and the one and only time that he'd looked into Dr. Teeth's dressing room. Of course the neat packaging completely ruled out Animal. "On second thought, I'm not sure I really want to know."

"Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill your agent?" Miss Chase asked, her purse clutched on her lap.

"He wasn't the friendliest agent to work for," Kermit mused, thinking of the many times that he'd heard Kent using uncomplimentary terms. He'd lost track of how many times he'd had to talk Piggy out of karate chopping Lanomer into orbit. There was also the fact that if he'd been so willing to use terms like that for his actors, who knew how he'd talk about people he had no obligation towards. "I think he also had a gambling habit, and he liked this one particular club… Something or other with a pink lizard on the sign."

"A pink lizard?" She repeated, scribbling on a little notebook. "Why would a club have a sign with a pink lizard?"

"I've never been inside, so I don't know any details. I think it was a pink iguana, actually. Considering some of the people I've worked with before, maybe it's the owner." Kermit shrugged.

"Good point," she muttered. "He gambled? Did he win or lose most of the time?"

"Gambling's not really my thing, but he didn't seem very happy about most things. He wasn't exactly a happy man." Kermit paused, considering what he knew about his agent, make that former agent. "I know he had two ex-wives, and he never had anything nice to say about either one of them."

For a moment, Miss Chase frowned, scribbling a few notes, and then she paused, asking, "Did he ever have anything nice to say about anybody?"

"Not really."

"That should really help us figure out what happened," Miss Chase grumbled. "An arrogant, grouchy guy who never said anything nice, two exes who were probably unhappy with him or they wouldn't be ex-wives, gambling… Was there anybody in the world who actually like this guy?"

"He had a dog," Kermit offered. Considering what she'd said, he asked, "Aren't the police supposed to figure out who the killer is?"

"And when things get just a little off from normal, the police get freaked out and find some other explanation. No, it couldn't have been zombies. Not a magic talking stick. Certainly not an evil magic doctor. Like I'd trust them to get the right answer," she snorted. "Putting someone into over a hundred little boxes, each one tied shut, given a little wax seal and numbered is weird beyond normal weird, even for someone from Sunnydale."

Kermit looked again at the woman. Sunnydale… he'd heard that name a few times, and while there hadn't been much, it had given him the definite idea that it wasn't a good place. Animal had grinned before saying it was 'wild'. Mad Harry ordered a lot of things from there, and given the number of things that he got that went boom, well, how did they send that sort of thing by mail? Weren't there postal regulations against that? Bunsen had once said that Beaker had taken a few classes there, years ago, and Beaker had meeped and shivered. Sweetums said his uncle had bought a vacation house near a town called Sun-something.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I've been much help," Kermit leaned back in his chair. "If you have a card, I can call if I hear anything that could be connected."

Digging a card from her purse, Cordelia Chase sighed, "Things would be too easy if you did know exactly what happened. Of course, that could also meant hat you were what had happened and intended me to be next, but I'd rather not be dismembered and put into boxes. Call if you hear anything, and good luck finding a new agent."

Kermit nodded, hopping from the chair to pin the card on the large bulletin board on the wall. He'd need to do a little investigation of his own, and not just for a new agent. "Good luck investigating."

Kermit waited until he couldn't hear her car anymore before he pulled out his address book. There were a few calls that he needed to make, and some questions to ask. He'd wait until later to call the Count.

End Muppet Contracts 2: Kermit and Cordelia.


	3. Grouchy

author: Lucinda

rated y-7? y-14?

part of the 'Muppet Contracts' series.

main characters:

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Oscar is a muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Angel is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI in that they aren't working for W&H (because the evil law-firm are the bad guys) but that time has passed since Wes started working with Angel. The Muppet Theater has been closed.

"Scram!"

Angel blinked at the shaggy green thing that was glaring at him from inside the trash can. There were large, bloodshot eyes the size of apples, and a wide mouth that went almost half way around the creature's head. A mouth like that could probably take a very large bite, and he had no idea what the thing ate.

Squaring his shoulders, Angel spoke in a firm voice, "I need to find..."

The creature didn't even let him finish. "I said scram! Get away from my trash! Now!"

"Doctors Bunsen and Beaker, from Muppet labs," Angel tried to continue.

Trash started to rattle, and the green thing growled at Angel, the large eyes looking more yellow, almost like the way a vampire's eyes changed, though the shape of his face remained the same. The fur did fluff out some, where the patches of unidentified slime and garbage didn't cause it to cling too closely to the thing's body. "Get out now!"

Angel considered the situation. He was facing an unknown, obviously unfriendly creature that looked about a heartbeat away from violent hostility. Chances were that this Oscar didn't know where a pair of eccentric scientists were anyhow. They hadn't been closely linked to the Muppet Theatrical group in over a decade anyhow. Angel had no idea what Oscar was, what he could do, or how to kill him.

Maybe this wasn't the time to press boldly ahead. Discretion was the better part of... something. Virtue? Wisdom?

"I'll just stop bothering you then," Angel took a few steps backwards, not wanting to turn his back on Oscar.

"And good riddance!" the thing shouted, ducking back down into the trash can and slamming the lid.

Walking away, Angel muttered, "What a grouch."

end Muppet Contracts 3: Grouchy.


	4. Angel and Miss Piggy

author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Angel, Miss Piggy

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Miss Piggy is a muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Angel is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

Angel tapped on the door, still debating if he wanted the woman to be home or not. Wesley'd had quite a few things to say about the inhuman actress, and it sounded as if Miss Piggy had a few similarities to Darla. Blond, image-conscious, willing to play on the reactions of others, and possessing a determined mind under a pretty face.

It wasn't a comforting comparison.

"Who is it?" A voice called from inside.

"My name's Angel. I wanted to ask you a few questions," he hoped that she'd open the door. Being invited in might be a bit much to hope for, but he preferred to at least see who he was talking to.

"Does this involve that detective agency?" the door opened, revealing Miss Piggy, enveloped in a purple silk robe, blond curls cascading to her shoulders.

Now she was really reminding him of Darla.

Smiling at the blond actress, Angel nodded. "I know that Wesley talked with you before. I wanted to talk to you about that and a few other things."

"Come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable," she smiled at him, waving him inside.

Angel wasn't sure why he felt a cold shiver run down his back. He stepped inside, and soon found himself settled in a plushy pink chair, with two big pillows collapsing over his lap. It left him feeling almost trapped. "Thank you."

"So you're the Angel who owns Angel Investigations," her voice was thoughtful. "Not bad at all."

Angel felt quite uncomfortable as he nodded. "We've been pursuing a number of leads on the case of your agent, Mr. Lanomer."

"What sort of results have you uncovered?" She shifted in her seat, the robe falling a little on her shoulder. The movement looked entirely casual, gracefully seductive.

He remembered Darla practicing one very similar for hours before she was satisfied that she'd got just the right mix of seductive and casual.

"We've found a remarkable number of people who didn't like him, but didn't kill him," Angel admitted. "Of course, there are still a large number of people that we're investigating, and several more that we're trying to locate. I was hoping that you might be able to help with that."

"And so you come to moi," she mused, one hand stroking the arm of her chair. "I do have better records of where some of us are now. The only one who might know as much about where we've all gone is Kermie. Who are you looking for?"

"Wesley's got an address for PePe, and I've sent Cordelia to talk to Gonzo. We're still trying to track down Muppet Labs, and if you could get a current address for Scooter Dee, the former stage manager?" Angel looked at her, wanting to finish things so he could get out of here. Darla always did something nasty once she had her victims in her gilded clutches, and Piggy was far too similar for his comfort.

"Hmmm," she pulled out a lavender book, and started flipping through pages. "Bunsen keeps getting chased out of buildings after a few major explosions, so it's not surprising that you're having trouble finding them. Here's… no, not since lat month. This is the address as of Friday."

Angel watched as she wrote out an address, not surprised at the monogrammed page. "Thank you, I think. We need to talk to them, but 'want to' might not be the right words."

"And here's Scooter's address. He hasn't been working in the business since our theater closed. I think he's been working for some sort of packing company," Miss Piggy wrinkled her snout at this. "Poor guy. He loved working for the theater."

Angel took the paper, looking at the curling handwriting. "Thank you for your help, Miss Piggy."

"Has anyone tried to find the Count yet?" her voice was softer, almost hesitant.

"Honestly, we've been trying to keep that for last," Angel admitted. "We've done a background search on him, and he was… The fact that he was a close friend of my grandfather is somewhat terrifying."

"What else have you found on him?" Miss Piggy asked.

"A mathematician in Williamsburg, over a century ago. The death was… rather similar to the one suffered by Mr. Lanomer, and it was covered in extensive detail. We also have a contact that had a few stories about a more recent visit of the Count's to the Hellmouth, and he left a group of rather traumatized minions," Angel shivered again, glad that he had missed that visit. Anything that had the Master's minions running out of the lair during the day to work on a plan to get someone away from Sunnydale… And there had been something about medication. Entire packs of demons that had sworn never to interfere with vampires on medication ever again.

"I thought he was on medication?" Miss Piggy's fingers tapped on the arm of her chair.

"Medication can be interfered with, or run out. And we're hoping that it wasn't him," Angel countered.

"I thought there was some sort of bigger, scarier person who dealt with misbehaving vampires?" her voice held confusion. "Some word that wasn't in English…"

"The title gets translated often," Angel murmured. "In English, it's Slayer. From what I've heard about the Count, he's met them before, and that means before he was on medication. He's still here and they aren't."

"That would explain why you'd rather it was something else," she nodded. "Please, keep me informed."

Angel nodded, escaping the cushions of the pink chair. "Of course, Miss Piggy. We're working hard on this case. I do hope that it hasn't been too damaging to your career?"

"A minor setback," she waved a hand. "We might reform the theater, if enough of us are still interested. Just the other day, Scooter said he found a building that would make a perfect theater, and it would be just like old times."

"I hope things work out for you," Angel kissed her fingers, certain that she would prefer that to a pedestrian handshake.

He left the building with the addresses clutched in his hand, feeling like he'd had a narrow escape.

End Angel & Miss Piggy.


	5. Cordelia and Gonzo

author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Cordelia Chase, Gonzo

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Gonzo is a Muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Cordelia is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

Distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

Notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

.p.p.p.p.p

Cordelia Chase shook her head, glaring at the building in front of her. "I'm supposed to talk to someone who lives here? My first apartment was in better shape than this!"

The paper in her hand still had the same address, the one that unfortunately matched this miserable, stinky building in front of her. There were boarded over windows on all three stories, and a few that still had panes of dirty glass. The brickwork had been patched multiple times in multiple colors, and had a thick layer of graffiti covering the first story. Gutters rattled against the walls, and there were little white feathers drifting along the building.

"Why feathers?" Cordelia muttered, taking the stairs one careful step at a time. Considering her experiences in Sunnydale and working with Angel, she decided that she might not want an answer to that question. They were too big for pigeon feathers, and she didn't know of any demons with palm length white feathers, so she might be safe.

Of course the apartment that she needed was all the way on the third floor. The stairs creaked and groaned, and she was certain that some of the boards moved. Bare light bulbs dangled from the ceiling at irregular intervals.

The weirdest part had to be the chickens. There were white chickens perched everywhere. They sat along the walls, with little nests made of feathers, dust and old papers. Several perched on the banisters. And they were watching her. In a creepy, Hellmouthy sort of way, Cordelia found herself regretting the grilled chicken salad that she'd eaten for lunch.

The edges of the door had smoke stains.

"Wesley is so getting maimed for this. First a pond beside a shack, inhabited by a talking giant frog, and now this place, filled with chickens," Cordelia hissed before she knocked.

Inside, there was a loud 'cluck!' followed by a more normal voice calling "Just a moment!"

Near her stomach, Cordelia felt as if something inside had just became something outside of her body, possibly sitting beside one of her designer shoes. A quick glance at the floor told her two things - first, none of her internal parts had turned external, and two, the floor was filthy. This was going to be another one of those days, she just knew it.

The door rattled as several locks were unfastened, lower than Cordelia would have placed hers. Those sounds only intensified that dropped organ feeling in her gut. It almost wasn't a surprise when the door opened, revealing a blue creature that wasn't even remotely human.

It was a bit taller than Kermit, and it - he was dressed in a ruffled shirt and tight pants, with a helmet tucked under one arm with a shooting star in fiery sparkles over the side. The long pale blue nose curled under at the end, and there were two protruding eyes under wild feathery eyebrows.

"You're Gonzo, formerly part of the Muppet Theater?" Cordelia stated, not a shred of doubt in her mind. Not about this being the Gonzo Kermit knew, at least. She had no idea at all what he was.

"Yeah," the blue creature put the helmet on a small table, next to a photograph of him, waving from the mouth of a canon. The background read 'Gonzo the Great.' He touched the frame, smiling. "But I have no idea who you are, or why you're here. You aren't from the Health Department, are you? And we had those structural repairs finished last week!"

It was almost like she had a miniature vision, seeing a bare room with that canon, half a dozen chickens, broken plaster walls, and a haze of smoke, Gonzo shouting 'light me!' before the canon roared and sent him into a wall. Unlike the visions sent for Angel, there was no pain involved, no sense of the future. This was either something that had already happened, or her own imagination.

Forcing the images aside, Cordelia replied, "My name is Cordelia Chase, and I'm part of Angel Investigations. We're a private detective agency, and we're currently investigating the death of Kent Lanomer. He was the acting agent of…"

"I know who he is," Gonzo interrupted. "He wouldn't sign Camilla and the girls, and he called me a no-talent blue weirdo freak with a canon fetish!"

The question slipped out before Cordelia could stop it, "Camilla and the girls?"

One blue hand waved to the side, indicating a chicken, "Camilla. The girls are here and there, keeping an eye on the building. You can't always trust the neighbors. Or the tenants."

"Tenants?" For a moment, Cordelia wondered where that had come from.

"I own the building. It was really the only way to be allowed to have the canon inside, and if I left it outside, it would get stolen." Gonzo shrugged.

Cordelia could only nod as she tried to process the idea that this strange blue weirdo was the owner of this run down building, and apparently had tenants. He knew who Kent Lanomer had been, and his chickens had wanted an acting agent. Chicken actresses. Her mind boggled.

"If you have tenants, why dos this place look so… so…" Cordelia struggled for the right words.

"Half of them don't care, and the other half would rather not be found by certain types. I don't rent out to people who are really nasty, and most of them are pretty decent once you get to know them. Besides, you wouldn't believe the trouble I have getting people in to do repairs around here. We're lucky that Sweetums knows a bit about masonry." Gonzo picked up a bag of croutons, and ate one of them.

Cordelia blinked, half of her wondering who or what 'Sweetums' was, and the other half certain that she didn't want to know. "That makes sense."

"So, how'd Lanomer die? Did Piggy finally karate chop him through a wall after he made one too many remarks about her figure? He kept trying to tell her she might want to diet," Gonzo shook his head. "Personally, I think she looks fantastic, and even I know that you don't nag someone with two black belts about her weight."

"I haven't met… Piggy, did you say?" Cordelia shook her head. If he wasn't going to talk about someone's weight, then why on earth would he use a nick-name like that for her? "But someone… someone cut him into lots of little pieces and individually boxed them. It made the papers."

Gonzo's jaw dropped. "Little pieces? Individually boxed. Please, please tell me he didn't turn the Count down for acting? I remember hearing a few things about that guy. I still don't see how Kermit can get along so well with him."

"Individually boxed and topped with a wax seal," Cordelia shivered. "It was messy."

"Oh no… the Count's off his meds again. The Count's off his medication and wants to be an actor. The world's gone mad. Mad, I tell you!" Gonzo ran out of the room with a flurry of footsteps. Poking his head back into the doorway, he called, "It was nice meeting you, Ms Chase. But I've got to set up some defenses against a crazy vampire with a thing for numbers. Camilla can show you out."

"A crazy vampire with a thing for numbers?" Cordelia shook her head, rising from the faded blue chair. "I knew there was something very wrong about that giant demon frog and his shack by the pond. Angel gets that one. I refuse to go talking to any more vampires."

She navigated the creaky stairways, ignoring the dangling light bulbs. "Chickens and canons. Demon frogs who are friends with demented vampires. Blue weirdos. I hate this case."

She took a final glance at the building and shook her head. "This place is crazy."

She decided right then that she didn't want to talk to anyone else that tied in to that Muppet Theater. It would be too dangerous to either her health or her sanity. Maybe both.

End Muppet Contracts 5: Cordelia & Gonzo.


	6. King Prawn

author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Wesley, PePe the king prawn

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. PePe is a Muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Wesley is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

.m.m.m.m.m.m.

Wesley decided to take his time with this one, and set aside the day to talk to this PePe Ocean, one of the numerous former associates of the Muppet Theater that had ended up with some measure of involvement with the late, unlamented Kent Lanomer. Pepe of the obviously assumed last name had participated in a few advertisements for the LA zoo and aquarium, a couple small pet stores, and now had a job at a small aquatic research center.

He held an undeniable resemblance to Cordelia's picture that had made its way onto their card. It was almost frightening.

The aquariums gave everything a bluish cast, and it was somewhere between relaxing and eerie to watch the various fish, eels, rays and sharks gliding through the waters. There were no prophecies or visions. No demonic attacks. No dreadful spells and manipulations, no ghastly potions. Wonderful.

PePe was over there, cleaning the bottom of one of the enormous tanks. Whatever PePe was, he looked quite at home in the water. Fish circled around him, darting away from the tube that he was guiding.

Wesley wouldn't have been the least bit surprised had PePe turned and snapped one of the fish into his mouth.

There were quite a few people who seemed to be as fascinated by PePe as they were with the fish and the sharks.

Wesley was quite content to let himself relax and simply watch the assorted sea life. A day without prophecies, hostile demons, or potentially deadly fights... He couldn't recall the last day he'd had without some sort of danger or impending doom.

"You've been staring at me for the last few hours," the voice held an accent that Wesley couldn't place.

Wesley nodded, feeling a bit guilty that he'd been caught out like that. "Yes, I umm... got a bit lost in thought. You are one of the associates of Kermit and Miss Piggy?"

"Yeah," PePe nodded, his face twisting into a smile.

"Those were good days. If I hadn't been enjoying things here so much, I might have taken Scooter a bit more seriously when he said something a month back about reforming the theater. But acting isn't everything to me. Not like it is for Miss Piggy. A bit more dancing might be fun, but..." PePe let his words trail off as he shrugged.

Wesley decided not to ask about the dancing. Instead, he commented, "I didn't know they were talking about reforming the theater."

"Scooter called me, said he was just trying to make sure we had some options, you know? Some of us have had trouble getting jobs since it closed down, and we could only stay in one house for so long before we just had to get a bit more space."

"There was also something about Muppet Labs," Wesley hinted. "Did that have anything to do with the desire for more space?"

"I was afraid they'd blow up the house," PePe agreed. "They keep having to move their labs to stay ahead of the health department. Something about too many explosions, and Bunsen likes the nitroglycerin a bit too much."

Wesley made a noise as his mind boggled.

Attempting to regather his thoughts, Wesley tried to return to his original purpose in meeting with PePe. Hoping for an answer with sense, he asked, "Did you know a Mr. Kent Lanomer? He was an acting agent."

"I've met him once or twice when I visited my friends," PePe shrugged. "I know Kermit and Piggy used him, but neither one thought he was a nice guy. But then, there aren't too many people who want to work with people like us. I don't know how Kermit did it, before. But that was a theater, and not around here."

"What changed?" Wesley had the nagging feeling that there was something important being touched on here, but he couldn't quite see what it was or how it fit with the murder of Lanomer. Not yet, at least.

"I wasn't there for the early part," PePe began. "Most of the originals met up back in New York, along with a few other people who weren't part of the theater. Kermit noticed that there were plenty of talented people, and Fozzy really wanted to tell his jokes, so Kermit got Scooter to help found the Muppet Theater. Things apparently went pretty well, decent audiences, plenty of special guests, and a lot of fun. Then there a new city official decided the place didn't meet some regulation or other and had the theater closed. They headed this way to make a musical, met more of us, and never went back."

"I'm sure that you've left out all sort of details," Wesley murmured. He was considering the history, as presented by PePe. "When did the Count come into things?"

"He's an old friend of Kermit's. Someone that Kermit knew before the theater came together, and I don't think he was much for song and dance routines. He's more into numbers and counting. Kermit may have had him doing the books, I don't know." PePe shrugged, unconcerned. "The Count never needed the money, and he said that Kermit was his favorite weather-frog."

"What did Kermit have to say about the idea of reforming the theater?" Wesley asked, wondering just what all the frog had done.

"You know, Kermit's never mentioned it," PePe frowned. "I think the theater was more Piggy and Scooter's big dream than Kermit's."

"What did Miss Piggy think about reforming the theater?" Wesley could feel the pieces coming together, though he couldn't quite see the pattern yet.

"She's always wanted to be a star, you know? The theater was supposed to be her big chance before, and here it's more about screen acting. She might go for it, considering the lousy parts Lanomer found her. She's talked a little about it, apparently Scooter asked her what she'd want in her dressing room," PePe glanced at his wrist. "Hey, this has been something, but I have to be going."

"Of course, thank you for your time," Wesley said.

He was halfway back to his car before he wondered what Miss Piggy and Kermit would do about their careers now that their acting agent – apparently the only acting agent willing to work with a talking pig and frog – was killed. How many options did they have?

End King Prawn.


	7. interlude: Now What?

author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Wesley, Angel, Cordelia

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Scooter and the Count are Muppets, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Wesley and Angel are the creations of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

Wesley closed the door to the former Hotel Hyperion behind him, still turning over the information that he'd gained from talking to PePe. There had been important things there, but there were still several missing pieces. Pieces that would cause everything to make sense.

"I'm not talking to any more of those weirdos," Cordelia glared at him, one finger waving. "First there was that giant demon frog that lived in a shack, and then the blue thing with the chickens… No more. I refuse."

"I think we need a bit more information, and then we'll have everything. Just a few more people," he paused, looking at Cordelia. "Are you absolutely certain that you won't go talk to one of them?"

"How many times do I have to say no?" Cordelia's voice was loud.

"Much louder and you'll wake the dead," Wesley muttered.

"Too late," Angel spoke from the doorway, a mug in one hand. "Who needs talked to, why doesn't Cordelia want to go, and where are they?"

"I think we can pass on the Muppet Labs. It might not hurt to have someone talk to Kermit again, but I think the key discussions need to be with Scooter Dee, who may have been the manager or assistant manager of the theater along with Kermit, and the Count. Unfortunately, I don't know anything about theatrical management," Wesley looked at Cordelia again.

"Who is this Count anyhow? Does he have money?" Cordelia paused, "And why did both the demon frog and the blue weirdo hope that he was still taking his medication?"

"His name is Count vonCount, and he's a vampire," Angel offered, eyes distant. "I'm not sure how old he is, but he's supposed to be taking some sort of sedative drug."

"Do drugs even work on vampires? And how do you know anything about this guy?" Cordelia turned to look at Angel.

"I met him a few times, before. Before I got my soul back," Angel paused, frowning for a moment. "He was a good friend of my grandsire, as much as vampires have friends. He's strange, even for a vampire."

"In what way?" Wesley demanded.

"So high, purple, pointed ears, and his hands are a bit odd. Stubby. But don't ever make the mistake of thinking that he's not dangerous because of that. He's dabbled in archeology, sorcery, and architecture, he's obsessed with numbers and mathematics, and he's absolutely terrifying," Angel shuddered.

"How is that different from ordinary master vampires?" Cordelia asked.

"Most master vampires don't get invited into the home of mathematicians where they discuss mathematical theory for hours. When most vampires get annoyed, they just rip someone's throat out and kill them. They don't carve them into little pieces, fold an origami box out of paper to put the piece in, seal it with wax, number it, and keep reassembly instructions!" Angel shuddered again.

Cordelia took on a greenish cast, mumbling "Forget that I asked."

"Isn't that remarkably like what happened to Mr. Lanomer?" Wesley offered. "One hundred and seven boxes, each sealed with the number thirteen?"

"Gross…" Cordelia gave a dramatic shudder before declaring, "And there is no way that I will go talk to this Count. Absolutely not."

Wesley turned to face Angel, "Will you talk to him? It could be… I don't think the rest of us could handle a vampire if the talk goes poorly."

"I'm not certain that I could handle him if the talk went badly," Angel muttered. "But I will go talk to him. That… Lanomer's death doesn't sound quite right."

"Of course it wasn't right! Someone carved him into little pieces and put them into boxes! I can't think of anything that would be more not right," Cordelia shrieked.

"Tossing dice with the toe bones of a minion that annoyed you?" Angel offered.

"That might do it," Wesley tried not to picture that, failing dismally. "Is that something that you… A common vampire behavior?"

"No. It's something that the Count did," Angel drained his cup, and sighed. "I'll find him, and I'll talk to him. Can you make sure that you've got some more blood, in case I come back wounded?"

"Is he that dangerous?" Cordelia looked at Angel.

"Grandfather liked him, respected him, and was occasionally terrified of him," Angel started. "That doesn't sound too bad, except..."

"What?" Cordelia demanded, one foot tapping on the floor.

"I was Angelus, favored childe of Darla, who was a childe of the Master of the Order of Aurelius. The Master was my grandfather, in vampire terms. The Count was his friend, and occasionally disturbed and terrified him. How bad do you think he is?" Angel countered, his eyes flashing gold for a moment.

Cordelia just shivered, and Wesley blinked a few moments, remembering the books from the Watcher's Council. Then he shivered as well, feeling his insides twist into a cold knot. "I'll go talk to Scooter Dee. Good luck talking to the Count."

Angel nodded, "I might need it."

End Muppet Contracts Interlude: Now What?


	8. Counting Fingers

Author: Lucinda

Rated y-14

Main characters: Angel, the Count

Disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. the Count is a Muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Angel is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

Distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

Notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

It hadn't been difficult to get an address and directions for the Count's place of residence. This might have been Los Angeles, but when somebody is eccentric enough to buy a plot of land beside a cemetery and then build a 'spooky miniature castle that has a flock of bats', it tends to stick out a bit. People had compared it to the setting of a horror film.

It would have been far more amusing if Angel hadn't known the ugly truth about the world, some horror films, and that the castle really was home to a vampire. Though a flock of bats did sound like a bit much. And the reports of pipe organ music in the middle of the night... Hopefully, the Count was still on his medication. If not, then this could truly end up a terrifying visit.

Angel left his car in a level area at the bottom of the castle's winding approach, well before the drawbridge over the moat. He wasn't quite certain how the Count had arranged permission for a moat, or if perhaps the Count had just built it and eaten anyone who'd objected, but it was definitely a moat. Glancing down at the water, Angel was certain that there was something large moving in the water, though he didn't know what it was, and he had no intention of taking a closer look. Gravel crunched under his feet, and Angel found himself on a small stone courtyard that would have been perfectly familiar to anyone living in castles a few centuries back. It made him feel young, and nervous.

Bats fluttered around him, chittering as Angel raised his hand to knock on the door. Glancing at the moving shapes, Angel muttered, "By chance could one of you tell the Count that he has company?"

He found it rather disturbing that several of the bats peeled away from the flock and slipped back into the castle. "Right, he's a sorcerer. They probably are reporting to him."

Angel knocked on the door, hearing the sound echo inside. As he knocked a second time, it occurred to Angel that the Count could have gone out somewhere. What would he do if the deranged purple vampire wasn't home?

"Two knocks and sewen echoes. It has been many years, Angelus," the door opened, revealing the Count. The same purple skin and four large fangs, the same gleaming monocle, the same medallion on a scarlet ribbon, though the suit was slightly different, a dark green that could almost be mistaken for black.

"Count," he began, with a polite nod. "I go by Angel now."

"I'd heard a few things about that," the Count spoke softly, his hand tracing over his medallion. "Darla had quite a few things to say about your changes in behavior. Perhaps a friend put you on medication?"

"Not exactly," Angel shifted his weight, feeling nervous. "Is there somewhere that we could sit down?"

"Of course, of course, vhere are my manners? Come this vay," the Count gestured and walked down though the open hall to a smaller room to the side. There was a low sofa and a pair of high backed chairs, and a glass topped table with several physics magazines and a leather bound book with a strange sigil on the cover. "Be comfortable."

Angel settled into one of the chairs, deciding that it looked slightly higher than the sofa. "How have you been lately, Count?"

"Quite vell, really. There is a fascinating article in this month's journal about string theory, and one on fractal images…" The Count rubbed his hands together with a smile. "But if I recall correctly, the numbers do not fascinate you as much as they do me."

"Not as much, no," Angel admitted. He didn't want to admit that he had absolutely no idea what 'string theory' even meant. "You've been reading about the latest physics research?"

"Of course," the Count smiled, and the monocle glinted in the moonlight. "Vhat have you been doing in the last century?"

"I ended up helping a Slayer in Sunnydale," Angel admitted, hoping that he wasn't about to get into a great deal of pain and trouble. "Now I have a detective agency in LA."

"Slayers, phah." The Count snorted, "So few of them have any appreciation for the numbers or for sorcery. I have had to deal with more than a few of them over my years, but the Vatchers have been wery annoying. The last one called me a wretched abomination."

Angel must have made a noise.

"He vas the sixty third Vatcher who came after me, and he took sixty three hours to die. I am Count vonCount, and I am not an abomination!" For a moment, his eyes glowed, and thunder echoed outside.

"I've spoken to a few of your former associates lately; they mentioned that you had been on some medication?" Angel sent up a little prayer, hoping that the Count would be reasonable. He also wondered just what sort of things were in Wesley's Watcher books on the Count.

"Ahh, yes. Kermit suggested it, he said that vhen I fly into a temper, it takes avay from the time I can spend vith my numbers. Bless him, but he arranged several people to vork wery hard to find me something that vorks vell. It soothes my temper vithout dulling my mind," the Count smiled, leaning back into his chair. "I haven't lost my temper for months. Not since that annoying wacuum salesman invaded my castle."

"A vacuum salesman?" Angel didn't know if he wanted to know.

The Count grinned, an expression entirely without comfort. "Most of him has since left. Vhat brings you here, a matter of your detecting agency, perhaps?"

Angel tried to ignore the comments about the vacuum salesman. "It does have to do with a case, actually. The murder of Kent Lanomer, an acting agent. He was the agent for Kermit and Miss Piggy."

The Count was frowning, and his fingers moved in strange patterns that could have been arcane symbols, or perhaps mathematical equations. "Kent Lanomer… I do not believe I know him. Knew him. You are certain that it vas murder?"

"He was chopped into one hundred and seven pieces, each of which was put into a box, and the box stamped with a wax seal," Angel replied. "That does tend to indicate deliberate intent."

"I suppose it vould," the Count agreed. "Did they leave any sort of message? Were the boxes kept in order, or vere they placed by anatomical location?"

"They were all given the same number," Angel offered. "Number thirteen."

The Count gaped at him, his jaw moving a few times before he whispered, "Each piece vas given the same number? The number thirteen on all one hundred and sewen boxes?"

Angel nodded, and asked, "You have been taking your medication, haven't you?"

"You think that I had something to do vith that? You dare suggest that I vould insult the numbers like that? That I vould be so limited as to not give each little piece their own number and the proper respect due to the counting?" Thunder boomed, and the Count's eyes were gleaming yellow.

Angel winced, and debated cringing in the chair against the merits of running for his car. "Apparently not. Sorry."

"You should be sorry, Angelus childe of Darla. I vould not simply pile all of the pieces into boxes and give them the same number," the Count hissed. "Such behavior lacks precision, it lacks organization, and one can wery easily carve a man into far more pieces than one hundred and sewen. There are two hundred and six bones, though one can generally only get a hundred from a wampire before they crumble. There are ower six hundred muscles, though it is wery difficult to remove the ones around the heart without a wampire crumbling. And of course there are the lovely organs, vith their assorted colors. Yards of intestines…"

Angel swallowed hard, certain that he'd made a grave error in coming here tonight. "A lot more than one hundred and seven then."

"Oh yes, many, many more than one hundred and sewen," the Count grinned, his eyes taking on a reflective gleam. "The mathematician vent into a number of boxes determined by the amount of his notes. That vas the limiting factor vith him. As for this Lanomer, I do not know who killed him, or vhy they had such an appalling lack of manners as to only use one number, but it vas not I."

"That's good to know," Angel whispered, not feeling at all relieved. For that matter, he didn't want to know how the Count had determined that you could remove one hundred bones from a vampire. "Except that I still need to figure out who did kill him."

The Count sniffed, "Look for someone more concerned vith appearances than the details. Or for someone who could benefit from the man's death."

"Thanks, I'll remember that," Angel stood up, his knees feeling rather wobbly. At the moment, he still had all the pieces that he'd entered the castle with, and he was hoping to keep them.

"Giving each box the same number, vhat is wrong vith people today?" the Count muttered.

"I can find my own way out," Angel offered, reminding himself not to run.

Angel retreated, forcing himself to remain at a walk until he reached his car. On the way back to his office, he shattered speed limits. Two questions remained, if the Count hadn't killed Lanomer, who had? And why try to frame the Count?

End Counting Fingers.


	9. Mr Dee's Theater

author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Wesley, Scooter Dee

disclaimer: If you recognize them, they aren't mine. Scooter is a Muppet, and therefore legal rights go to Henson Puppetry, Wesley is the creation of Joss Whedon & his writers for the BtVS and A:tS television shows.

distribution: if you want this bit of insanity, just let me know.

notes: um, let's just say sort of AU after Wesley started working at AI, the Muppet Theater has been closed.

Wesley glanced at the paper again, and tried to ignore the chill that flowed down his spine. There was no reason for that chill, the weather was fine, the sun was out, his clothing was warm enough, the area was reasonably nice, and there weren't any breezes. He still had the feeling that there was something wrong… It probably related to the details of Lanomer's death. Or perhaps the indications that whoever was responsible had taken a long, hard look at Watcher journals, and how did they get those anyhow?

The address was clear, Scooter Dee at 14 Terrace View Apartments, 974 Orchard Lane. This was the right apartment building, and the right door. There was a little mat outside the door, one with a picture of a flower pot and a ribbon like border, without any writing at all. He didn't know if that was coincidence, or if Scooter knew about a vampire's need for an invitation before entering a residence. Trying to convince himself that he wasn't delaying, Wesley knocked on the door.

"Just a minute!"

The voice was a stressed sounding tenor, the sort that Wesley associated with young men trying to take on too many responsibilities at once. His own must have sounded similar while he was studying to be a Watcher. More critically, there were traces of the Midwestern accent, used by many American newscasters and a number of politicians. Not the sound of someone local. Even less like the sound of his own home.

The door opened, revealing someone that definitely wasn't human. Wesley assumed that this was Scooter Dee. He was short, no taller than a six or seven year old child, with a large oval head and a tuft of bright red hair. Plastic framed glasses magnified wild looking round eyes, and stubby fingers clenched the side of the door. He looked much more human than the memorable Miss Piggy. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Wesley Wyndham-Price, and I work for Angel Investigations," Wesley began. "May I come inside?"

Scooter frowned, and then opened the door wider, making a sweeping gesture with his hand rather than issuing a verbal invitation despite the bright sunlight. "What did you want to talk about?"

"In the investigation of one particular case, we became aware that you were once involved with a theater," Wesley spoke cautiously. He tried not to read too much into the way he'd been waved inside. It could have nothing to do with vampires at all, sometimes being Watcher-trained led people to read things that weren't there into behaviors. "Regrettably, Miss Piggy did not have your current contact information."

"Piggy? We talked on the phone just last month!" Scooter Dee frowned, and then shook his head. "You might as well sit down."

"Thank you," Wesley sank into the low chair, and tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine again. "We had noticed that several of the people we talked to were less than forthcoming."

"Nobody had much to say?" Mr. Dee had an odd expression, not quite a smirk or a frown.

"Actually, there was a great deal said that could be summarized as 'how dreadful' and 'please let the Count still be on his medication', but little that was of substantial use to our investigation," Wesley sighed. "Did you know the Count as well, Mr. Dee?"

"Only in passing," he shrugged his shoulders, and studied Wesley from across a cluttered coffee table. "Kermit worked with him a lot more than I did. I think the Count did some of the paperwork. But the real stuff, handling the critical details? That was me and Kermit. It was great."

Wesley nodded, a corner of his mind noting that this sounded like a different version of things than the ones they'd heard before. "Did you arrange the acts, or did Kermit?"

"That was me," Scooter Dee's expression could only be called proud. "I found the best special guests. Vincent Price. Ozzy Osbourne. Liza Minelli. Mark Hamil. Christopher Reeve. James Coburn. Blondie. Sylvester Stallone. I convinced the regulars to join the theater. Everything was brilliant."

"That is a very impressive guest list," Wesley murmured.

"That's only the tip of the iceberg! We had amazing guests, and fascinating regulars! Things were fabulous. Chaotic, but fabulous," with a small sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "It was the Health Department that ruined everything. They closed us down, something about explosions, and Gonzo's chickens posing a health risk for the area…"

"Is that sort of thing a common problem for independent theatrical groups?" Wesley wished that Cordelia was here. Despite having no comprehensible filing system, the lovely woman knew theater.

"It depends on how touchy the people running the health department are." Yellow fists clenched and Scooter Dee continued, "I tried to keep things going, and if Kermit had only listened to me, things would have been just fine!"

"I have known many people who regret how things unfolded in the past," Wesley offered, his instincts screaming that there was something wrong. He didn't know what – Scooter Dee wasn't a deadly species of demon, there was no terrible sorcery about, no visible weapons… "in that, you are not alone."

"Maybe things will go better this time," the words were quiet.

"Pardon?" Wesley felt confused.

"With the theater, I mean. Now that Lanomer's dead, what other option will they have? I mean, there aren't very many people willing to hire pigs, and I can imagine what would happen if someone tried to ask Piggy to mud wrestle or work as an exotic dancer," Scooter snickered. "She'd hit him so hard his face would be backwards."

"I can't see her doing either of those professionally," Wesley agreed.

"Things will be much better this time," Scooter spoke again, steepling his fingers. "I'll make sure of it."

Wesley paused, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in unmistakable warning. He felt like he was missing something obvious, and spoke with caution, "Have you a location then? For a new theater, I mean. Not to mention… well, I have no idea what sort of permits or legal paperwork are required for that sort of thing."

"Everything's ready to go as soon as I can get enough actors," The smile was somehow terribly wrong. "Mr. Price? How will they handle the Count? I mean, considering what he is, I don't think the police could deal with him."

"I'm sure that all the necessary precautions will be taken," Wesley murmured. "The Count is not someone to take lightly."

"Of course not! He's crazy," the round eyes widened. "There was this one time that he started to sing… the whole theater was echoing with opera for hours and hours. And who plays the pipe-organ now days anyhow? You just can't trust someone like that. It's been obvious for years that his sanity was just hanging by a thread."

"Of course," Wesley murmured.

"I must thank you for your time, Mr. Dee, but I have a few more stops to make this afternoon. There's a matter of a stolen car, a gambling ring, and the possibility of a kidnapped or perhaps run away child of… well, I really shouldn't say who the father is in that case," Wesley forced back the rising panic, and shook the yellow hand before walking slowly out of the apartment.

He forced himself to walk slowly down the hall, out of the building, and down the block. He changed busses twice, running the conversation over in his mind. Something had set off warnings in his mind, and he trusted his instincts enough that there had to have been something wrong to cause that. Something not just a little odd but gravely and horribly wrong.

Not until he walked back into the lobby of the Hyperion did Wesley freeze, suddenly feeling frozen from the bones out. "How did he know I was investigating Mr. Lanomer's death? I only ever said I was investigating a case. How could he be sure it was that? Why not think that Miss Piggy was in some sort of sex scandal, or Kermit involved with eco-terrorists?"

Rushing towards his office to jot everything down, Wesley finally asked himself another question, "Why is he so certain that the theater will start again? And why have everything ready just now? The timing on that is rather suspicious."

Wesley gathered the notes from his own interviews, and frowned. He needed more than this to find all the pieces.

Seeking out Cordelia, Wesley finally found her in the kitchen, sipping at a fruit smoothie. "Cordelia, I need the other interviews of the… well, the Muppet Theater people. Kermit. Gonzo. Whatever Angel found talking to the Count. Something isn't adding up right."

"Particulars?" Cordelia tapped one finger on her smoothie glass.

"Just what is entailed in running a theater, and how long does it normally take to set up such a thing?" Wesley paused, and added, "And how important is it to have particular names to draw audiences? The impression that I was given was that the paperwork was taken care of and only a few personalities signing remained."

"There's a lot more than just getting the actors," Cordelia tilted her head, and added, "A good stage crew is also important. Set design, costuming, make up, lighting and sound technicians… everything. Not that I had a good appreciation of that when I first came to LA."

"Oh bloody hell…" Wesley tensed, the pieces falling into place. He wasn't quite certain how to explain the logic and present the evidence, but he knew what had happened. And it was horrible.

End Muppet Contracts 9: Mr. Dee's Theater.


	10. And the Killer Is

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

tenth entry in the Muppet Contracts

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me. Muppets belong to Henson Puppetry, the AtS crew belong to Joss Whedon and his writers.

Distribution: by permission, and if you have the previous parts, you have permission for this one as well.

Notes: An investigation into a murdered acting agent introduces the Angel Investigations crew to some very strange individuals...

Wesley decided to share his suspicions with the rest of the Angel Investigations. It wasn't enough that he was almost positive that Scooter Dee had murdered Kent Lanomer and attempted to frame the Count for the crime. He needed to have some sort of proof to go along with the motive and suspicion.

"I think you must have got the normal one," Cordelia grumbled before muttering "demon frogs and blue weirdos. uggh."

"I think that Scooter Dee killed Lanomer," Wesley put it bluntly. "Hardly a 'normal one', particularly if you consider his motive."

"Okay, what was the motive?" Cordelia snapped.

"With their agent dead, he felt that Miss Piggy and several other members of the former theater would have no option but to return to stage productions, with Scooter Dee as the manager," Wesley sighed, and rubbed at his temple. "Murder to facilitate ambition and a grab for power. I suppose that is fairly normal..."

"He framed the Count?" Angel's voice was little more than a whisper. "Is he insane?"

Wesley opened his mouth to reply and paused. As he thought back over his encounter with Scooter Dee and the way the strange small man had spoken, he shivered again. "I wouldn't discount the possibility. He is certainly obsessed. And if he was willing to kill one man, he might be willing to kill again, especially if he feels it necessary to cover up his earlier murder."

"We should tell Kate," Angel offered. "She's in a good position to get official evidence, and should know better than to underestimate someone, no matter how unlikely they may look."

"And if he gets off on a technicality? We can't just leave insane killers out there, hacking apart people in the acting business!" Cordelia stood up, eyes bright and gesturing wildly.

Wesley considered the idea, and sighed. "What else can we do? I don't even know what he is, let alone how to kill him if need be."

"If he walks on a technicality, I'll tell the Count," Angel spoke into the tense quiet. "The Count will be able to take care of him."

"Maybe he'd best hope for a long prison term," Wesley whispered, remembering the entries in the Watcher's Journals about the Count's murder and dismemberment of a mathematician in Williamsburg.

"It won't be in our hands to decide if he goes to prison," Angel commented. "And I don't know if that would keep him safe from the Count if he felt it necessary."

Wesley shook his head, and dialed the number for Detective Lockley. He didn't look forward to this explanation at all.

End Muppet Contracts 10: And the Killer Is…


	11. Calling Kate

Author: Lucinda

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

eleventh in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them.

Distribution: by permission, and with the previous parts of the series.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started... 'words in single quotes' are over the telephone.

Kate Lockley sighed as she stared at the pages of a report on the Lanomer murder crime scene. While this was far from the first murder of an acting agent in the area, it was one of the most appallingly gruesome murders that she could recall hearing about. The blunt facts helped a little, with the time of death, the fact that the people at the morgue were almost certain that they'd found all of the body in those horrible boxes. She tried to comfort herself with the little things; it hadn't been a child, it hadn't been a sex and murder combined crime, it didn't appear to be the first in a series… She still wasn't comforted. At least that vampire and his people weren't involved.

"Jack, this is the last time I let you talk me into looking over your case files. Last month it was that prostitution ring. Two months before that it was the councilman's wife and secretary framing him so they could skip out to the Bahamas together," Kate tapped the papers against the desk. "This is just…"

"His wife and the secretary looked damn good together too," Jack tried to smirk at her. "This one's just… There's something wrong with the picture, and I can't quite put my finger on what it is. More than a guy getting chopped into pieces and stuffed into boxes."

"The twine and wax seals, maybe? That's a lot more old fashioned than most people use now days," Kate tried not to think of Angel, shuddered at the memory of his colonial vampire-spawn that had been behind a string of serial killings. "Remind me, were there fingerprints anywhere?"

"Fingerprints everywhere. Most of them belonged to Lanomer, not surprising as it was his office. Prints from eight people that he worked with, arranged jobs for. Prints from his cleaning lady. Prints on the door from two pizza delivery guys. A couple that just didn't look normal at all…" Jack shook his head. "What you mean is on the boxes. They've already been running them in the lab, and they don't match anything in the files. They don't even look human."

"Not human?" Kate looked at Jack, a cold suspicion forming in her stomach.

Jack sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "One of his actresses isn't human, she looks… and for the love of keeping your teeth don't say this to her face, but she looks like a short blond pig-woman. But we already checked her prints against the boxes, and she's been cleared. But it does make me wonder about the other ones…"

"And they haven't found the murder weapon? Or whatever was used to dismember him?" Kate glanced at the papers again, trying to see if there was a listed cause of death, or if the dismemberment had obscured the cause of death. She hoped to heaven that Kent Lanomer had been dead before he'd been carved into pieces.

"Not yet," Jack cracked his knuckles as he glared at the pages. "They've ruled out a lot of things, tox reports were all negative, we've cleared most of the people that he owed money, cleared the exes, and… we've got a lot of nothing."

Kate's cell phone rang. For a moment, she thought about ignoring it, just letting whoever it was leave a message. But her sense of responsibility nagged at her, as well as the simple fact that some people would just keep calling, letting the ringing irritate her into answering or throwing the phone against the wall.

"Lockley," she didn't try to keep her irritation from her voice. Whoever was calling could deal with it or leave her alone, and God help them if it was a telemarketer…

'Yes, this is Wesley Wyndham-Price, with Angel Investigations. There was a case that we were investigating, and we think we have some information that would be of interest to you,' the hesitant voice held an unmistakable British accent.

Kate swore to herself as one of the few benefits of this case evaporated. The odds of it being any case less disturbing than this were slim and none. "Kent Lanomer."

'Yes. We've been talking to various people, and we're almost certain that we've figured out who and why.'

"You have?" Kate blinked, sitting up straighter in her chair. "How did you figure that out? Where are you?"

'Following up on several interviews with other interviews, and speaking with some very disturbing individuals. I am currently at our office, and if you'd like, we can have copies of our interview transcripts… err, Cordelia just informed me that you will most likely need to ask some of the people questions on your own, for the protocol and official paperwork.'

"I can be there in fifteen minutes," Kate insisted. "Be sure to give me copies of everything you've got, if we can't use it directly it will help us with our own questions. Umm… is it one of those cases?"

"The murderer set things up in that particular gruesome fashion in an attempt to frame someone else for his crime. I hope that you can get the true perpetrator imprisoned, so that the person he tried to frame doesn't take matters into his own hands. I'm not quite certain what the real killer is, I know who but not what, but he was trying to frame a vampire.'

"One of Angel's friends?" Kate snorted, wondering just how many vampires were out there insisting that they had gone to the good side.

'Not precisely, no. More of an acquaintance of Angel and a good friend of his Grandsire. I assure you that you don't want the Count to take care of this himself.'

"The Count? What, does this guy think he's European aristocracy?" Kate snorted before her mind could catch up with her.

'I'm not certain if he is or if he's just eaten them,' there was a pause and a metallic squeal, followed by muffled curses at stupid cabinets and bizarre filing systems. 'There are times when the fine points of historical accuracy don't matter as much as how to keep all of your original pieces intact.'

"Is this guy that bad? And if he is, why on Earth would anyone try to frame him?" the questions slipped out, and Kate couldn't be certain if she really wanted to know or just needed to know before not knowing got her shot, stabbed or killed. Glancing at Jack, she offered, "Private detective agency, this guy said they've been looking into Lanomer, and he thinks they've got something. He thinks they know who and why."

'Yes, he is that bad, and as for why frame him… Insanity has been mentioned. Presumably, everyone is to take the obvious answer without prying beyond the ugly surface and then be killed trying to deal with the Count, and meanwhile he goes about his merry plan unhindered. Angel spoke to the Count, who was most displeased that someone ahhh…. Yes, here's the transcript, and I quote, 'You dare suggest that I vould insult the numbers like that? That I vould be so limited as to not give each little piece their own number and the proper respect due to the counting?' We took that to mean that it wasn't the Count, and that life in prison or execution by the state of California would be the preferable options for Mister Scooter Dee.'

"Any suggestions?" Kate shivered as she put a folder over the reports. "Such as silver bullets or wooden stakes?"

'Take backup with you when you go after him. He's possibly insane and has already killed Mr. Lanomer in pursuit of his ambitions. I can't recommend any particular weapon, though he certainly does raise the hairs on the back of your neck…'

"Right, I'll see you soon, and I'll have backup with me," Kate ended the call, and gave Jack what should have been a smile. "So, ready to find out what they've got?"

End part 1.

It didn't take long before Kate and Jack reached the office of Angel Investigations. Jack had asked her a few questions about the people they were going to see, but Kate had tried not to give much information. A private investigation agency that tended to get some strange cases, though she refused to explain what 'strange' could mean. The man who called was British, there was a woman who made the strongest coffee that Kate had ever encountered, and then there was Angel…

She really hoped that they wouldn't run into Angel tonight. Dealing with him always left her stomach in knots and a sour taste in her mouth. Attempting to explain him would only make Jack question her sanity.

Fortunately, the only one they encountered was Wesley.

"These are copies of what we have, with various notations and comments in the margins. Unfortunately, we don't have sufficient evidence to charge Mister Dee, though there are more than enough things to support an official questioning. I can not stress enough how carefully this should be handled," Wesley spoke as he handed over the freshly copied papers.

"What's his motive?" Jack asked, peering over Kate's shoulder at the top page.

"Previously, Scooter Dee and Kermit Frogg ran a theater. Several of the people who were once part of that theater became clients of the late Kent Lanomer. It turns out that Scooter Dee has been attempting to reconvene the theater, with himself in charge. Now that Lanomer has died, his clients will, in the words of Mr. Dee, have to return to the theater, who else would hire them? He said that everything was in order and the theater could open immediately," Wesley shook his head.

"Immediately?" Kate glanced over the pages. "Opening anything takes time to organize. Permits, paperwork, connections and hookups… Hiring the various staff."

"He said immediately," Wesley paused. "Cordelia agreed about the various requirements and delays for a theater. Combine that with the timing, and it does seem a bit suspicious, doesn't it?"

"Have the people from that theater been in regular contact?" Jack looked over at Wesley. "Can you be sure the rest of them weren't helping things go faster?"

"Some have remained in contact, others not as much. Miss Piggy said that she hadn't heard much from Scooter and couldn't give a current address, though he insisted that they'd been in regular contact. None of them besides Mr. Dee mentioned anything about reforming the theater."

"None of which is a sure sign that they might not be in on it," Kate murmured, flipping through the pages. "Everyone does seem worried about this Count person remaining on his medications."

"Yes, we did notice that," Wesley's voice was very dry. "They seemed quite intimidated by the idea that he might have stopped taking them. One might even say terrified."

"Does this Count have a history of violent behavior? Is that why he's supposed to be on medications?" Jack asked, glancing at one of the pages. "Wait, did that say a cannon, and something about chickens?"

"Yes to all of the above. Gonzo's building contained a cannon and chickens. The Count has… a very colorful and violent history, the medication is supposed to help prevent such things from happening again. Before you ask, I don't have a detailed history on the Count's behavior before he was put on medication, and I don't know what sort of medicine he's been prescribed."

Wesley shook his head, "It seems what happened to Kent Lanomer reminds people enough of the Count that there may be similarities. The Count denies killing Lanomer, as he insisted that each piece should have been individually numbered. But if everyone thinks he may have been involved, would they look elsewhere?"

"That's his comment? Each piece should get a separate number? Are you sure he's still… that's the reaction when he's on his meds?" Kate looked at Wesley, and sighed. "I definitely don't want to go talk to him."

"A good point about the timing," Jack agreed, taking some of the papers from Kate. "And diverting suspicion to someone else is a classic move. Especially if it's a believable someone else."

Kate looked for the address for Scooter Dee, getting the feeling that this was going to be a long and unpleasant night. "Thanks, Wesley. Let's go, Jack. I definitely don't want to knock on this guy's door alone."

End part 2.

End MC11: Calling Kate.


	12. the Right to an Attorney

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

twelth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them.

Distribution: by permission, and with the previous parts of the series.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

.mc..12.

Lindsey McDonald closed the folder, relieved to be finished with the Townsend case. It was supposed to have been a simple matter, just updating the will of Evard Townsend, one of the multitude of sorcerers that had worked for Wolfram & Hart on some occasion. Except that Evard turned out to be half Kipeska demon, and left the room smelling oddly like lemon custard, and was updating his will before marrying his current lover, a tiny Hispanic dancer who looked like she might be legal to marry, and was obviously chosen more for her physical charms than any sort of intellectual capacity. Maybe Evard wanted to sacrifice her to some sort of demon lord - it wouldn't have been the first time. That had been the end of Mrs. Townsend number two, come to think of it...

"McDonald, they've got someone interesting down at the police station. An arrest in the Lanomer murder. Go see if he, she or it needs a lawyer and if they might be of use to the company," Holland Manners didn't make it a request, or wait for questions.

"Of course, sir, right away, sir..." Lindsey grumbled, tucking the Townsend file back into the cabinet and locking it securely - the basic latch, a combination lock, a lock with a key, and a minor locking spell that he'd learned in his second year with the company. Someone highly determined and skilled could probably still get in, but he'd definitely know if his file cabinet was tampered with - a necessity, considering some of the cases and clients. He didn't dare ignore Holland's order, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

The trip to the police station was about as expected, annoying inept drivers, motorcycles darting between lanes, obnoxious teenagers playing what was supposed to be music far too loud, and old people afraid to drive the speed limit, as well as several red lights. Frustrating, but not abnormal. He found a place in the nearby parking garage, and walked over to the police station, pulling out the little wallet that had a copy of his bar certification as well as a duplicate of his driver's license.

"Visiting a client?" the receptionist asked, one eyebrow raised. Her tone was cool but polite, and if she had anything against lawyers, it wasn't obvious.

"Mmmm," Lindsey paused, considering how to answer that without committing himself or getting in trouble. "My boss has been following a few cases, and sent me to see if someone needs a lawyer after being brought in. If I don't go talk to the person and ask a few question, I'm in trouble, but I wouldn't say that I've got a client yet."

"I've had a few demanding bosses myself," she smiled. "I need to have you empty your pockets into the plastic bowl and step through the metal detector. Just a precaution, you understand."

Forcing a smile onto his face, Lindsey pulled out his car keys and a handful of spare change, dropping them into the bowl. They were joined by a half pack of mint gum, a couple paper clips, and his wallet. After a couple moments, he added his watch to the bowl before walking through the metal detector, which only gave a contented hum. "Would the mayor and his secretary have to do that?"

"They'd have to take their shoes off as well, Mr. McDonald," there was a twinkle to her eyes now. "And if they came during certain shifts, they might get a wave over with the wand."

He chuckled, glad that the charming smile was working. It might not be mind control, but if he was careful, he could take bored public officials from slightly hostile to slightly helpful, and maybe willing to bend just a few rules for him, since he was a nice guy...

A quiet officer glanced over the bowl, tilting it a bit to make certain there was nothing sinister lurking below the gum. Passing the bowl back to Lindsey, he asked, "Who were you supposed to speak to?"

"My boss has an interest in the Lanomer case, he said that someone had been brought in for questioning?" Lindsey hoped that this wouldn't blow his string of small successes.

"Oh, you're not going to want to take him as a client," the uniformed officer shuddered. "But if your boss insists that you talk to him, he's down this way."

Lindsey stuffed his things back into his pockets as he followed the officer. Whoever it was had obviously made quite an impression, and in near-record time. It would be far from the first time he'd worked with someone unsavory for the benefit of the company, but... He couldn't stop himself from wondering just how this individual had made himself unwelcome. "What can you tell me about him?"

"He's about so high, very yellow," the officer paused, "Not oriental yellow, or jaundice yellow, but more of a peach or mango yellow. Big, bulgy eyes, and... well... it won't make sense until you talk to him."

Lindsey nodded, thinking that it definitely sounded like the suspect wasn't human, though that still left hundreds of options. He wondered if it was the inhumanness or something else that was bothering the officer.

"He's in this room. Name's Scooter Dee, he hasn't asked to call anyone or to have anyone called on his behalf. There is someone on the other side of the glass," the officer waved at a door, with the typical interrogation room on the other side. An ugly beige wall, broken only by a vent, the door, and a large one way mirror, brownish tan floor tiles, a steel and brown Formica table, and a small individual handcuffed to a metal chair. "A matter of procedure, until you officially take him as a client, I have to go in with you."

Giving a small shrug, Lindsey reached for the doorknob. "Anything else I should know before I try to talk to him? Any communication barriers, physical or mental impairments?"

"He's got no trouble hearing or talking, and his English is just fine. As for mental issues... I've been told several times that I'm a cop, not a shrink, and therefore not qualified to make that call. But he seemed to follow us just fine earlier when we asked a few very basic things - name, address, if he could tell us the date, who the president and governor are, all that seems just fine."

"Have you taken his fingerprints?" Lindsey asked. Depending on what sort of evidence that had, that could be legally permitted, even expected. Though it sounded like they were being very careful about their legal limits with this one.

"We printed him when we asked if he could tell us where he lived. The address matches his ID, and we are running them through the database. Standard procedure after a couple teens hot-wiring cars down the coast turned out to have been kidnapped when they were toddlers and they only found out when the prints were run looking for prior convictions."

"And?" Lindsey arched an eyebrow, wondering what else might turn up when they ran this guy's prints.

The officer shrugged, "Guy's in there, why not ask him? You might end up his lawyer, wouldn't it be your job to find that sort of thing out?"

With a sigh and a nod, Lindsey opened the door. "Afternoon, Mr. Dee. My name is Lindsey McDonald, and I'm a lawyer with Wolfram and Hart. I understand that you were brought in with regards to the murder of Kent Lanomer?"

The small yellow man smiled, his skin wrinkling in a way that reminded Lindsey of felt or old puppets. "Call me Scooter, Mr. Dee sounds like you're from the IRS or something."

"Fair enough. Can you tell me what you know about the Lanomer murder, Scooter?" Lindsey reminded himself to smile and look young, friendly, and overly helpful.

"I know that he was Piggy's agent, and he drove her crazy. Not asylum-crazy, but complain and throw vases at the wall crazy," Scooter began. "I know he was killed in his office one night, carved into one hundred and seven pieces, each packed into a box, tied with a silk ribbon, and closed with a sealing wax made in Bavaria... Anyone can see that the Count did it. Kermit had him keeping the books, years ago when we had a theater. But the Count got off his medication somehow and killed Kent Lanomer... very messy. Whoever goes after him needs to be careful."

Lindsey felt his ones chill, and that horrible quiver along the back of his neck that told him things were very bad. "Yes, it was a very messy scene, from what I've heard. Could you excuse me for a moment?"

Lindsey stood up, motioning for the officer to step outside with him in what almost looked like a spasm.

As the door closed, the officer tipped his head towards the door, "That's Scooter Dee. I don't have the right words to explain him before you talk to him."

"What's been released to the press about the ribbon and wax? I don't recall any details beyond the number thirteen..." Lindsey shivered again, and glanced through the door's window at the cheerful looking Scooter Dee.

"That is all that's been released to the press. We've got some statements from some of the actors that used to work for Lanomer, apparently this Count person goes by the name Count vonCount, and he used to work someplace called the Muppet Theater, either run by a guy named Kermit or by Kermit and Scooter in there." With a small shrug, the officer admitted, "I don't know if he's right about the wax or not, all I know is it was red, and they all had a seal with the number thirteen, and the ribbons were black. I saw them through a clear plastic evidence bag."

"What else do you know about this Count fellow?" Lindsey hoped that he was wrong. Surely Scooter Dee hadn't tried to frame someone that terrified those uptight Watchers and demon leaders alike. It had to be a coincidence. Some sort of aspiring actor with a publicity stunt...

"Everyone we talked to that had been involved with the Muppet Theater knew who he was and hoped that he was still on his medication, though nobody would say what the medication was supposed to do. Some sort of crazy, no, the word's eccentric accountant, maybe four feet tall, some sort of Eastern European accent, built himself a little castle out past the city limits. The postman said he ends up with a couple bags of letters a month, and half of them seem to be from himself..." the officer shrugged. "That and the idea of him getting off his meds scared everyone half to death."

Lindsey fought chills, wanting to believe that it was just air conditioning. "He does sound eccentric. I don't think I'll be taking Mr. Dee as a client, though someone else from the company might. He scares me - I think this one might be the sort of insane that..."

"That hacks acting agents into little pieces and puts them into boxes?" the officer's voice was dry.

"Yeah," Lindsey nodded. He didn't want to add that if he had tried to frame the Count, it would go very, very badly for anyone who helped him. If demons were scared of this Count, he didn't want to anger him. "It seems like a pretty clear case for insanity, but I'm going to stay out of this one. As far out as possible."

Lindsey made his way back to the Wolfram & hart offices, though he couldn't really remember anything about the trip. He settled back at his desk with a mug of hot coffee and the file on Count vonCount, fighting to stop the shivers along his spine.

"I thought you'd take longer setting up the defense for Mr. Dee," Holland Manners' voice was disapproving.

"After I heard him try to frame Count vonCount for the murder, I decided not to take the case," Lindsey looked up. "Scooter Dee's homicidal, and he's trying to frame the Count, and therefore insane. The Count lives just outside the city limits, he's going to hear about this. He's going to know that Dee's trying to frame him, and he's going to be furious. I refuse to make myself a target of that anger."

"He's trying to frame Count vonCount?" Holland Manners shook his head, "That won't end well. I can see why you refused the case. Though someone willing to do a thing like that... we could find a use for someone like that."

"If he's very lucky, he'll end up in solitary confinement for the rest of his life," Lindsey offered.

"And if he's not so fortunate... I do believe I'll keep a close watch on Mr. Dee," Holland Manners smiled as he walked out of the office. It wasn't a nice smile.

Scooter Dee might find someone to try to defend him, to help him wiggle out of jail. The insanity plea might well work; he did seem to be insane. Not gibbering at the pretty colors and talking to potted plants insane, but completely out of touch with consequences insane. Lindsey wanted nothing to do with that. Especially since escaping jail might be the worst thing that could happen to Scooter Dee.

"Anyone taking this case will lose. Even if they win, they lose. Not me," he sipped at the coffee. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any better.

end Muppet Contracts 12: The Right to an Attorney.


	13. Muppet on Trial

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

thirteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them.

Distribution: by permission, and with the previous parts of the series.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc13..mc13..mc13

"What's the result?" Cordelia asked, dropping onto the chair in the lounge.

Angel looked at her, absently noting that she'd done something different with her hair, leaving it in curls and looking shorter, maybe a bit lighter as well. "Results relating to what? Which case? Or did you mean the carpet after those demons attacked?"

"Which was completely disgusting, by the way," Cordelia shuddered. "Our recent cases. The murdered acting agent, the missing substitute teacher, and the strange amulet."

"In order, the carpet is clean," Angel decided not to go into any detail about how he'd learned to get bloodstains out of fabric in his first century, the trial and error process, or just how the stains had got there to begin with. It would either make him sound like the sadist that he no longer was, or like Martha Steweart, who he suspected was some sort of evil demon. "Scooter Dee was arrested for the murder of Kent Lanomer and is going to be tried tomorrow, I want someone to keep track of the verdict. The missing teacher has been located, and released from the hospital, the scars should be minimal, and most of the memories should get repressed. We still don't know about the amulet other than the fact that it isn't silver."

"We found the killer, the police took him in, why do we need to follow this Scooter Dee? It's obvious that he did it, right?" Cordelia frowned for a moment before smoothing the expression away, no doubt someone had told her it would cause wrinkles.

Angel shook his head, "It isn't that simple. They'll need to verify all the evidence. For his sake, he'd best pray that they don't let him go after an insanity plea. Though I suppose it might work..."

"If the guy's crazy, why would it be bad if it sends him to a nut house instead of prison? He'll be locked up either way, right?" Cordelia demanded.

"Not quite. In prison, they'll probably put him in solitary confinement, with no visitors permitted. In an asylum..." Angel thought back to the various asylums he'd visited as Angelus. Somehow, he doubted that they were much tougher to get into now than they had been eighty years ago. "Things would shortly get very ugly if he were sent to an asylum."

"They have rules about how they treat crazy people now, Angel," Cordelia looked at him. "And isn't solitary confinement with no visitors a bad thing?"

"Solitary will mean the Count probably won't go after him," Angel answered. He was a bit uncertain of that, but he tried to sound confident. "The Count will go after him if he's in an asylum, and do you really think the orderlies would take a lunatic seriously if they said 'help, there's a three foot tall vampire with a Transylvanian accent in here.' No, they'd assume it was a hallucination or delusion. He wouldn't consider an asylum sufficiently punishing. And if they let Scooter Dee walk..."

"What happens then?" Cordelia asked.

"Pain, dismemberment, and probably lots of little pieces in individually numbered boxes."

"Seriously?" Cordelia raised one eyebrow.

"Deadly serious." Angel sighed, and left the lounge, headed for the kitchen. After this, he felt the need for a drink, perhaps a shot of whiskey added to his mug of blood would help.

Hoping not to alarm Cordelia, Angel had his mug of blood in the kitchen. To settle his nerves, he had a second, also with a splash of whiskey, while Cordelia answered a phone call.

"Angel? That was Kate Lockley," Cordelia had a small notepad beside her, along with a pen. "Something sort of weird happened after they had Scooter Dee in the station. A lawyer from Wolfram & Hart showed up to talk to him."

"Who?" Angel frowned. If Wolfram & Hart got tangled up with Scooter Dee, would that drag the Count into whatever plans the law firm had going? Would Scooter Dee become part of their next evil plot? He didn't like the possibilities that came to mind.

"Lindsey McDonald," Cordelia sighed, "If he weren't a bad guy, I'd like him a lot more. He's cute, and smart, and probably has a nice apartment. Too bad about the fact that he works for an evil company."

"What did Wolfram & Hart want with Scooter Dee?" Angel asked, suddenly feeling like those two shots of whiskey hadn't been enough.

"He had a short talk with Scooter Dee and decided not to take him as a client. Whatever it was that caught their interest, Lindsey decided not to go for it," Cordelia grinned. "So he might not have a really skilled evil lawyer on his side."

"There are more lawyers at Wolfram & Hart than just Lindsey. Though I do have to wonder what changed his mind," Angel murmured. "Maybe they have records about Williamsburg too."

"So, why are you worried about this trial?" Cordelia asked again.

"Scooter walking away will be a danger until the Count finds him. I don't know how long that will take, but he does know something's going on," Angel tried not to think about his own part in bringing the situation to the Count's attention. "When he finds Scooter, he'll be…. It will be a very bad thing for Scooter Dee. Scooter Dee in an asylum might be traumatic for the other crazy people. Scooter in solitary confinement might be safe for a while. Scooter in general prison…"

"Not so safe?" Cordelia asked. "Is this guy really worse than the Master? And if he is, why not get rid of him, or send a Slayer to deal with it? Buffy's good at killing vampires, as long as…. Well, as long as it isn't someone she knew beforehand."

"The Count doesn't consider Slayers a threat. As for Watchers… He mentioned the last one when I asked him a few questions. Something about how the Watcher called him an abomination and took sixty some hours to die…" Angel shivered as the Count's words replayed in his mind. "Sixty three. Because he was the sixty third Watcher to use that term about the Count. He said all he had to worry about were wac… I mean, vacuum salesmen, and most of the last one had left his castle."

"Okay, maybe he is creepy," Cordelia sighed. "I just… send Wesley. I think I have an audition that day."

"Do you know what day the trial is, Cordelia?" Angel tried not to smirk.

"I have an audition," Cordelia repeated. "No more involvement with any of those crazy people from that theater, no lunatics on trial, no scary vampires. Just auditions. Because I fully intend to become a famous actress."

"Of course you do," Angel nodded, turning so that she wouldn't see him smirking. "I'll see if Wesley will go."

*********

Wesley Wyndham-Price sat in the back of the court room, listening as the case was presented. The evidence was extensive, clearly placing Scooter Dee in the office of Kent Lanomer, handling the murder weapon. The papers preparing for Scooter's theater company were presented, though there had been a motion to dismiss that from the trial, the defense lawyer claiming that Mr. Dee's ambition to open a theater had no connection to the tragic death of Mr. Lanomer. The fact that Scooter had contracts ready to offer several people that had been represented by Kent Lanomer quickly put an end to that attempted defense.

The photographs of the crime scene and the remains of Kent Lanomer were horrible. Quite a few people turned unflattering shades of grey or green, and several lost the contents of their stomachs in the court room, unable to escape in time to preserve their dignity.

Bloody clothing had been found in Scooter Dee's apartment. Though it was obvious that efforts had been made to rinse the blood away, it was easily detectable. Testing had matched it to Kent Lanomer.

There was no question in the minds of the jury that Scooter Dee had killed Kent Lanomer.

The defense attorney, looking pale and terribly young, had shifted tactics. He'd brought in several psychologists, having them go on about mental disorders that could cause breaks with reality, multiple personalities, even attempting to claim that the fact that Scooter Dee had tried to blame the murder on a small purple vampire as 'an obvious delusion'.

Cold fear had crept up Wesley's spine when an accented voice from the side of the courtroom declared, "I am not a delusion. Perhaps more to the point, I did not kill the acting agent that all this fuss vas about."

"Are you trying to tell us that you are this Count?" the Judge's voice had been close to calm.

"I am Count vonCount," the small figure had made his way towards the front of the room. It took a while before Wesley could see him.

The Count was short, no larger than a child just starting primary school, and elegantly dressed in a very old fashioned suit, complete with a cape and medallion on a ribbon. His ears were pointed, and two rather prominent fangs were visible. Nobody would wonder how someone could get the idea that this was a vampire.

"Are you a vicious and homicidal vampire when you forget to take your medication?" the defense attorney smirked.

"I am a certified accountant, a student of history, and a dabbler in warious sciences. My medication is not relewant to this case, nor is my mental state, as I am not the vun on trial," the Count had a wide smile as he made his statement. "Vunce upon a time, I vorked with Kermit Frogg and Scooter Dee in the Muppet Theater. I handled the financial matters and the bookkeeping. That theater has since closed, and all of us have found other things to do vith our time. Regardless of my mental state or medication, I believe the members of this court can agree that I am not a delusion of Scooter's mind, nor am I a hallucination."

"Why are you here today, Mr. vonCount? I thought vampires avoided the sunlight?" the prosecuting attorney asked, shifting slightly away from the small figure.

"Somevun I vorked vith has blamed me for the death of a man that I have newer met. Vy vouldn't I take an interest in how this trial is resolwed?" The Count's voice remained calm, and he completely evaded the question of sunlight.

Wesley tried to recall if there was some form of underground access for the courthouse. Some sort of rational explanation for the Count being here in the day, when Angel was avoiding the trial due to vampiric flammability. He couldn't recall, and it frightened him.

In the end, the jury found Scooter Dee guilty of the first degree murder of Kent Lanomer. Determining his punishment took a bit longer, and in the end, they concluded that if two independent psychiatric evaluations found him to be insane, he would be held in a secure asylum until such time as he was declared sane, in which case he would be transferred to a prison to serve the remainder of his sentence. Should he be found sane by one or both of the psychiatrists, he would go directly to prison for life, with an option for parole after sixty years.

Wesley tried to find the Count in the crowd after the sentence was delivered. His efforts were fruitless, though he was unsure if he just overlooked the small vampire or if the vampire had left the courtroom. Either way, it was a very solemn former Watcher that returned to the office of Angel Investigations.

Stepping into the area where Cordelia kept the filing, he found Angel frowning at a stack of folders. Cordelia was out, presumably still at the audition she had mentioned.

"Well?" Angel's question was expected.

"They found him guilty. The location for his confinement will be determined by two evaluating psychiatrists, according to the jury. If the Count doesn't step in first," Wesley shuddered again, remembering the vampire standing in the courtroom. "He was there, at the trial. The Count was there… where does the court house connect underground?"

"I don't know," Angel murmured. "It must connect somewhere, because…"

"Vampires and sunlight do not mix," Wesley finished. "He's shorter than I expected. And very purple."

Angel nodded. "I suppose we don't need to worry about Scooter Dee any longer."

Wesley nodded, though he thought it would be a long time before he could listen to a Transylvanian accent again without twitching.

End Muppet Contracts 13: Muppet on Trial.


	14. Loose Ends

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

fourteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them.

Distribution: by permission, and with the previous parts of the series.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc14..mc14..mc14..mc14

Count vonCount considered the stack of papers concerning the things that Scooter Dee had accomplished. His paperwork organizing the permits and building for a theater were in order, and a building had been purchased and prepared, the title in the name of the New Muppet Theater. Stacks of papers evaluating local performing talent, comedians, singers, dancers, as well as the numerous stage and lighting personnel. Current contact information for many of the former employees of Kermit's theater. A listing of all the local inspectors, police, and politicians who could hold influence over the theater, as well as a few notes on the politicians and their weaknesses. All seeming quite brilliant, though he was not an expert on running a theater.

On the other hand, he had attempted to frame him for the murder of Kent Lanomer, appallingly uncouth acting agent, and he had mortally offended the numbers. Not quite mortal yet, they still screamed and whispered for Scooter's blood, crying out to be avenged for the insult done to them. To give each piece the same number... to suggest that such an insult could have been the work of himself, Count vonCount!

Scooter Dee would have to die. He would make a point of complimenting his thorough arrangements first. Perhaps Kermit and the others would wish to return to theatrical work, perhaps as a memorial to Scooter? He would have to ask Kermit about that before he killed Scooter.

Kermit was the only name missing from the list of people in the theater papers. The absence was a change from Scooter's normal thorough and effective work. No matter, the Count had memorized Kermit's number two years and five months ago.

With particular attention to each number, he called the frog. There were some things that Kermit was better suited to attend to than he himself was, and the running of a theater was one such thing.

The conversation reminded Count vonCount once again that he didn't always understand Kermit. After what felt like several confusing digressions into matters of careers and entertainment trends, and more comprehensible questions of what the others of the theater had been doing, Kermit had concluded that if some of the others were agreeable, he would restart the theater. The question would be some of the regular entertainers – they would have no shortage of guest, and the Count knew that most of the old hands would jump at the chance to follow Kermit again. Dwight and Thudge and Sweetums had pledged themselves to the frog long ago, and they and their kin took such matters very seriously. He knew that Piggy would jump at the chance, seeing it as a way to once again court the frog, though it had not worked in the past.

Shaking his head, the Count decide to permit Kermit to speak to the others, knowing that the frog could achieve much better results with people than he could achieve, unless the goal was terrified obedience or dismemberment. He bundled the papers into a folder, and carefully tied and sealed it, before summoning a group of bats to deliver the folder to Kermit, at the mill pond near Gastonbury Lane.

He would attend to the loose end of Scooter Dee and his soon to be mortal offense against the numbers. The Judge had declared that two psychiatrists would need to evaluate Scooter and he would then be placed either in prison or secured in an asylum. In these modern days, so many doctors, both those who treated the body and those who treated the mind, were reluctant to speak of their patients. He could persuade them, given time, but that would be… crude. There were easier ways to find Scooter Dee.

It took him only thirteen minutes to gather a silver platter that measured twenty three inches across, a jar of sea salt, and a pitcher of water. Many obsessive mystics would be dismayed that the water had come from the tap, was no more than Los Angeles city tap water, complete with one hundred assorted trace minerals and chemicals, instead of purified and filtered water, or water drawn from a natural spring by the light of the moon. He'd tested carefully, and so long as the water was clear instead of muddy or filled with algae, it made no difference for scrying. His fingers carefully dropped the salt into runes, and traced a thin line around the edge of the platter. Focusing his mind on Scooter Dee, he poured a little water onto the silver, "Show me vhere he is hiding…"

The water rippled, and formed an image, Scooter Dee in soft clothing gathered at the waist with elastic, his feet swimming in open toed slippers as he scrawled on a sheet of paper, a listing of names, a scattering of dates. It appeared that Scooter Dee was not enjoying his confinement, was eager to be at work on a theater. He lounged on a narrow bed with a brown blanket, set against blandly beige walls, with a tiny window that had a mesh of wires within the glass. Smiling, the Count pulled his scrying, needing to see the outside of the building. Ideally with a name.

The bland little room proved to be in a bland little hallway with beige carpet. The bland hallway passed a beige counter, with a tired looking woman in dark green medical scrubs, with short dark hair touched with grey. The hallway continued to a pair of double doors, secured with one of those little electronic pass codes, of the sort that held ten numbers into a combination, though he couldn't calculate how many possibilities until he knew how many digits were in the pass code. Five digits in the code would permit 1,486,719,515 different possible codes, and he knew that some of them took six, or even more digits in their codes before they would open. Delightful… Past the double doors secured by the delightful electronic security, he observed another bland hallway, though this one had tan carpet with brown stripes. A large cart held folded towels and sheets, and he could see other people in the soft clothing meandering along the hallway, sometimes beckoned by other women in scrubs, though not all of them clad in green. Pulling further, he found large glass doors, also secured by an electronic code, and a parking area. The outer walls were white washed plaster, reminiscent of the old Spanish missions, though the architecture was different enough that he knew it was not an original building. A wooden sign revealed the name – Brentwood Hollows, home for the mentally disturbed.

It appeared that the two psychologists had decided that young Scooter Dee was quite mad. Very sensible of them, otherwise he might have had to go have words with them on the matters of sanity and safety. The scrying didn't last very long, and he lost the image shortly after looking at the sign and the parking area, which were surrounded by a dry yard, a few geometrically pruned shrubberies, and a pair of palm trees that leaned away from the building. That was not a problem, as he had the name of the facility, and could easily determine the location with that and the assistance of a local telephone directory.

Sometimes the modern world was a wonderful thing. It was so easy to find places and people now. Kermit would handle the new theater. Scooter wouldn't be going anywhere. The psychologists didn't need his attention. That only left one small matter.

*********

Lindsey MacDonald considered himself to be a smart man. He felt that his excellent grades in college showed this, as did the assortment of cases that he'd taken and won, and the way his successful string had continued at Wolfram & Hart. Granted, there were days when he wondered if working here was particularly wise, but that was a different question. Glancing at the newspaper, he congratulated himself on not taking Scooter Dee as a client. It would only have led to pain, perhaps pain and death.

Pausing, Lindsey considered that line of thought. What had happened to whoever had been foolish or desperate or ignorant enough to take Scooter as a client? For that matter, what would happen to the legal obligations and possessions of Scooter Dee now?

He went to the lower hall, and gestured for one of the paralegals to approach. The minions of the legal world, these people did so many of the tedious tasks that made his job much easier. The approaching person could pass for human, though she had a shock of bright pink hair that fell unevenly to her shoulders. He didn't know or care if it was a fashion statement or a sign of non-human heritage.

"Did you need some assistance, sir?" There was a resonance to the paralegal's voice that gave a bit more weight to mixed heritage, as well as traces of an accent.

"There was a recent trial for Scooter Dee, who was convicted of killing Kent Lanomer, an acting agent. I want to know what happened to Scooter Dee's attorney, and what the current state of Dee's legal obligations are now that he was sentenced," Lindsey gave the woman the information and what he wanted, confident that anyone working here could get the rest from those pieces.

"Was the case one of ours, sir?" her voice was low, and she tilted her head to the side, looking at him with pale grey eyes.

"I hope not. Certainly not one taken by any of our more experienced lawyers."

"I'll have a preliminary for you by three, sir."

**********

Kermit the frog studied the list of names on his desk. Piggy and Gonzo were delighted at the idea. Animal and Dr Teeth had been thrilled, and said they'd get the rest of the band together. Bunsen and Beaker preferred to remain with Muppet Labs, though they had offered to let him borrow one of the Beaker copies. Guy Smiley had begged to be an announcer, apparently the independent channel that he'd been serving as a News Anchor for had gone under with the recent change in broadcast legislation, and a small matter of the owner's taxes not being paid for the last seven years. Thudge and Sweetums and the stage crew were in, almost before he'd finished the question. The Count would probably be offended if he didn't ask if he wanted to do the books for this theater, just like he'd done the ones before.

Of course, running a theater took a great deal of work. He wasn't certain how he would have managed before without someone to assist him, and whatever his faults, Scooter had been a capable assistant. Perhaps he could see if his nephew Robin wanted in on the new theater?

Considering all that Scooter had done to get a new theater going, it would be a shame to let all that work go to waste. Kermit had never appreciated waste, be it time, resources, or money. "The Muppet Theater will come back. After all, if someone's willing to kill for it, who am I to argue?"

Too bad Scooter wouldn't be able to see it happen.

End Muppet Contracts 14: Loose Ends.


	15. First Get Rid of the Lawyer

Author: Lucinda

Rated R for gore, also has some swearing

fifteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them. The Count & Scooter are the creations of Henson Puppetry.

Distribution: by permission. If you have permission for one of the earlier stories, then you have permission for this vun as vell.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc15..mc15..mc15..

Count vonCount was not one to act hastily. He knew where Scooter Dee was being held, and knew that the assistant stage manager and murderer would not be permitted to wander away. Which meant he had time to make sufficient preparations here for Scooter's stay.

"Vun dungeon cell, complete vith vun two manacles, each vith five feet of chain and a three inch thick cuff, to be secured vith a steel bolt. Vun stone slab to be used as sleeping accommodations, vun block of stone for a chair and a table secured to the vall so it can not be removed. A small flock of bats to keep him under obserwation at all times.... vhat am I missing?" The Count paused, looking over the small cell. Located in the lowest level of his holding area, the only places lower were his most secure ritual rooms and the vault where he kept the older spell books and physics journals.

After a few moments of reviewing his plans, he smiled. "Yes, yes, I must cast a few more preserwative spells so that Scooter vill be enjoying my hospitality for a long time."

Some preservative spells and containment wards later, the Count decided that it would be wise to rest for a while before seizing Scooter from Brentwood Hollows. He would have to leave them a small token of thanks for taking care of Scooter while he made his preparations. Something memorable.

Much like he had spoken to Scooter's attorney before the sunrise. Though he did hope that they would be more polite at Brentwood Hollows. It would help keep things from getting messy.

........

It was starting to be a bad night. Kate Locksley had been called to an apartment building when someone on the first floor had intended to complain to their building manager about the pipes leaking when they realized that what had just landed on them was _not_ water. After repeated poundings on the door to the second floor apartment directly over the disturbed first floor resident had resulted in nothing more than an aching hand, the manager had called the police, saying that something wasn't right, and could they come to help him check it out.

It turned out that 'wasn't right' was an understatement.

Kate leaned against the wall, taking very shallow breathes though her mouth, trying not to smell anything, wishing that she could forget what she had seen in that apartment. Both windows in the living room had shattered, leaving shards, chips and dust of broken glass everywhere. The couch had been over turned and slashed, with off white stuffing flecked with blood falling onto the broken glass that covered a carpet so soaked with blood that only by looking at the wall closest to the shattered windows could reveal that it had been a dusty beige. Walls that had once been off white had been splattered with blood, and the blood had been used to write two lines on the cracked wide screen television – "36 poorly chosen words" was the top line, with letters almost an inch high. The second line was smaller, not quite as even, and written at a slight angle – "7,392 pieces of broken glass". Blood had splattered the walls and ceiling in several arcs, and stained the tan curtains. Even more disturbing, the blood had started to dry, leaving rusty brown flecks over the walls and ceiling, with the carpet looking like a massive bruise. The shattered windows had let in the insects, resulting in a buzzing mass of flies over the body, the carpet, on the walls.

Blood that had to have come from the body in the middle of the floor. A body so mangled and dismembered that she had no idea if it had been a man or a woman, but left her thanking whatever passed for God that it was most likely not a child. The whole room stank of old blood, raw meat left sitting out, an acidic stench of internal fluids, and ruptured bowels. All in all, it was one of the most awful crime scenes that Kate could recall seeing.

"Did you find the building manager? Who is supposed to live in apartment 23?" Kate looked at the other officer, her mind refusing to give his name – Jack or Jacob or Jackson… he'd just transferred in from San Diego a few months back.

"The apartment lease is signed to Colin Finnegan, and he's an attorney. Are we sure that he's not responsible?" Jack replied, his eyes full of questions.

Kate shook her head, "We aren't sure of much right now. We are very certain that this is a crime scene, and that someone committed murder."

"Do you think Finnegan did it?" He had a small frown, and mused, "If he's an attorney, what sort of things does he do? Wills, contracts, court cases?"

Waving him to the door, Kate gave him a look, "That's the next thing to find out. It could be very important."

Her hand still in the rubber crime scene glove, Kate opened the door, gesturing for him to look inside. "For all we know, that could be Finnegan in there, in which case he definitely didn't do it. If that's not Finnegan, someone may have been sending him a message."

Jack turned an odd tannish green, his eyes widening as he jumped back, swearing in English and a few words of Spanish, and what Kate thought might be Russian. "Who the hell would do that? How the fuck did they get out, how did nobody manage to hear something… carved up like fucking hamburger…"

"Good questions. We don't know the answers to any of them." Kate shuddered, certain that this one would leave nightmares. "At least the crime lab should be able to get some blood samples to try and run some identification. I couldn't tell if fingerprints or dental would still be an option."

"Shouldn't… shouldn't the killer have left footprints?" His voice was low, as if he didn't want any rumors to get started.

"You'd expect so," Kate agreed, a part of her mind wondering what sort of horrible demonic thing could do that, and trying to remember if there had been anything resembling footprints amidst all that blood and broken glass. "We can definitely rule out accidental or natural causes."

Reluctantly, Kate turned her attention back to the crime scene. From behind the couch, a cell phone began to ring.

*********

At the offices of Wolfram and Hart, Nieva Sonders sighed as she hung up the telephone. She'd been trying to contact Colin Finnegan all day, to ask a few questions regarding his representation of Scooter Dee at Mr. Dee's trial for the murder of acting agent Kent Lanomer. One of the department managers had mentioned wanting to offer the young attorney an interview, requesting that she make the appointment. Her friend Marissa in legal records had mentioned that one of the lawyers had asked her to gather information on Colin Finnegan as well.

All that attention from powerful people. Life must be looking up for Colin Finnegan…

End Muppet Contracts 15: First Get Rid of the Lawyer.


	16. Gathering the Facts

Author: Lucinda

Rated R for gore, also has some swearing

sixteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them. The Count & Scooter are the creations of Henson Puppetry.

Distribution: by permission. If you have permission for one of the earlier stories, then you have permission for this vun as vell.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc16..mc16..mc16..

"Alright, Wesley. You've been acting twitchy all week. Spill now," Cordelia demanded, glaring at the former Watcher.

For his part, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was running his fingers over a rosary, with a stack of brand new stakes in front of him, and a round trash can filled with wood shavings at his feet.

Wesley looked at her, his eyes haunted and swallowed twice before he could manage any words. "The trial... he was there. But it's not supposed to be possible. I checked the blueprints in the library archives, and with the city planning department. There's no underground access to the courtroom. Nobody at Lorne's knows of any later additions to the underground tunnels. There is no way to get there without magic transportation or walking through the sunlight."

"No access to the court rooms without going through the sunlight. Fine, what does that have to do with anything?" Cordelia started taking the stakes away from Wesley's heap, putting them in the box that they could tuck out of sight when clients came to the lobby.

"The Count was at the trial."

Cordelia dropped the batch of stakes to the ground. "But he's a vampire! Vampires can't go into the sunlight... unless he had one of those tacky magic rings? Did they even make more than one of those? Another Gem of Amarra?"

"The Watchers' Journals and the texts suggested that if the Gem of Amarra wasn't a myth, and most believed that it was only a story, then there was only the one. He did not have on a ring that looked like the Gem. I have no idea how he was able to..." Wesley shuddered and fell silent.

Cordelia knelt down, carefully picking up the stakes. "You're saying that the terrifying crazy vampire can go out in the daylight, and we have no idea why? Do we know anything else?"

"Scooter Dee's lawyer may have vanished, or may have been found as a horrendously mutilated body in his apartment last week."

"I take it back, I don't want to know anything about it anymore."

Kate Locksley stared at the report from forensics, concerning the apartment of Colin Finnegan. The coroner's report on the body found in the apartment was right below it, and she really didn't want to read either one. The images were still seared into her mind, lurking beneath her eyelids to keep her awake at night, twitching at each little sound at the window.

She was a cop. She was her father's daughter. She was supposed to be brave…

Her hand shook as she pulled out the coroner's report and flipped it open. A few key facts were on the first page, neatly separated from the details about the body's condition and the causes of gruesome death. The remains had been identified as those of an adult male, approximately five foot eight to ten inches tall, mid twenties. Blood samples and DNA analysis had been sufficient to compare to blood donated to the Red Cross by Colin Finnegan and served to identify the remains as Colin Finnegan with a ninety seven percent certainty. Time of death was estimated at between midnight and two in the morning.

Her courage failed, and Kate didn't look at the later pages that would detail the particulars of the coroner's efforts to fit the pieces back together and identify what had been removed in what order and when he'd actually died. She only looked at the second page of the summary, nodding at the statement that he had not been suffering from any known neurological disorders, and that the blood-work had come back free of any drugs or poisons. Just a very high level of adrenaline and endorphins.

Closing the coroner's file, Kate put it back on the desk, and looked at the forensics report. Part of her wanted to apologize to the CSI staff for having to deal with that nightmare scene. Another part wished that she hadn't had to deal with it either. She knew that they'd taken pictures. Lots of appalling and gruesome full color pictures.

"Delaying won't help, won't make them go away, and doesn't do a thing for the images," Kate sighed and opened the CSI report.

The first thing was a note penciled on half a sheet of note paper that was paper clipped to a picture of the television, with those awful words scrawled in blood over the screen. Kate felt herself pale even more as she read the note.

Whoever did this is meticulous about details, and scary The number of glass fragments is exactly 7,392. There were no clear fingerprints that we believe to belong to the murderer. Fingerprints of Finnegan, Finnegan's landlord, Finnegan's sister Grania have been found, but no clear prints from the killer. Your killer is probably OCD with deep anger issues.

The fact that the glass fragments had matched the number written in blood on the television was almost as bad as the images. The only way that could happen would be if the killer had stopped to count the pieces before leaving the crime scene. Also, somehow the whole apartment building had missed the window shattering as well as the death of Finnegan.

She had a sinking feeling that this was the sort of nightmare that Angel and his people would know about. She'd drop by tomorrow afternoon, while it was still daylight out. The sunshine would make her feel a little better.

…………………………………………

The door to Lindsey MacDonald's office opened, permitting an androgynous figure with short dark hair to slip into his office, a stack of manila folders clutched to its chest. Even the voice couldn't be used to conclusively state that the person was male or female. "I have the records that you asked for, sir. We also managed to find a few things about Colin Finnegan, the lawyer who served as Defense for Scooter Dee."

"Thank you, Terry. What did you learn about Finnegan?" Lindsey gave one of his charming and friendly smiles, knowing the value of having assistants who wanted to help you accomplish your goals.

"Finnegan, Colin – a second generation Irish American, graduated with a law degree from California State. He passed the bar exam a few months ago. Scattered dating history, mostly pursuing giggly blonds, but apparently heterosexual. No steady girlfriend, no vengeful exes. He had a strong enough college career and bar exam that he was being considered for recruitment here," Terry paused, shaking its head a moment. "That has since been derailed by the fact that he's now very dead before we could get him under contract. His body is still being held by the police coroner's office. We managed to get a copy of the coroner's report, and it's for the best if you don't ask how."

Lindsey nodded once, and then tilted his head. "Could this have been the work of family enemies, or was it…"

"His sister, Grania, works as a part time waitress at a sea food place near the airport and is also attending UCLA to pursue a degree in journalism. She doesn't have any particular enemies either. While his cases have been well argued, our analysis suggests that this is the direct result of his attempted defense of Mr. Dee. There was apparently a note and numbers left in Finnegan's apartment."

"What happens to the properties and holdings of Scooter Dee now that he's going to be in some form of imprisonment for the rest of his life?" Lindsey asked, wondering if this would be something to follow up more or something to back away from slowly and quietly.

"Since Mr. Dee was declared insane, his holdings have been given into the keeping of his sister, one Miss Skeeter Dee. Her contact information is in the file," Terry added.

"Any recent strange activity with Miss Dee? Is she connected to any of his previous dealings?" Lindsey held out one hand, flicking his fingers towards him in a gesture that requested the files right now.

"As far as our people could determine, Skeeter Dee had no involvement with the assorted schemes of Scooter Dee. However, she was recently observed to be talking with a large green frog that our people have since identified as Kermit Frogg, of the former Muppet Theater. The frog that was Scooter Dee's former employer. They weren't able to record the conversation, but they did confirm the presence of what appeared to be legal documents."

"Do we know if Scooter Dee might have had any impending terminal health conditions, or if he may have gambled poorly and been left with ugly debts? Or if he was undergoing any sort of psychiatric treatment?"

"Unknown about the health issues, but we know Scooter Dee wasn't in the habit of making cash wagers. He does seem to have made a rather large gamble that the Count would be blamed for Lanomer, but that isn't the same thing at all," Terry shook its head, and gave a small snicker, "It was certainly something that took courage. Or maybe stupidity."

Lindsey nodded, and then flipped open the top file, freezing at the color pictures that had been included. Pictures of pale walls splattered with russet, and dark red carpet scattered over with diamonds… No. Pictures of a room where the walls were sprayed with bloods that had soaked into a carpet, a carpet that held a scattering of broken glass. After a very long quiet moment, he looked at Terry, "I suggest that our investigating people use extreme caution. Especially if they see a short purple fellow in formal wear."

"Count vonCount. Is he involved with the Dee family beyond the obvious?" Terry's shiver was obvious.

"Among many other things, Count vonCount was the bookkeeper for the original Muppet Theater, run by Kermit Frogg with the assistance of Scooter Dee. I don't know of any connection to Ms. Dee, but that's no reason not to be careful, is it?" He tried to keep his words calm. "There's also anecdotal evidence from several demon clans connected to Sunnydale that the Count has a possessive streak regarding Kermit. You do not want him to think you are threatening his frog."

"Sir? You have a meeting scheduled with Kermit Frogg and associates tomorrow at three. Tasha from the front desk penciled it in, and I don't have any other details."

Lindsey wanted to beat his head against the desk, or perhaps curl into the corner and hide. He did neither. He didn't howl that he wanted the whole crazed batch of former Muppet Theater associates to stay far, far away. "Make sure that I have a mild sedative available after that meeting, there is a strong chance that I might need it."

"Of course, sir."

End Muppet Contracts 16: Gathering the Facts


	17. the Show Will Go On

Author: Lucinda

this installment is rated T

seventeenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them. The Count & Scooter are the creations of Henson Puppetry.

Distribution: by permission. If you have permission for one of the earlier stories, then you have permission for this vun as vell.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc17..mc17..mc17..

Lindsey was dreading three o'clock. An appointment with Kermit Frogg for who knew what... How was he supposed to prepare himself when all he knew about this upcoming appointment was that it would be at three with Kermit and whoever or whatever the frog chose to bring?

Maybe some sort of sedative before the meeting would be helpful? For a few moments, he considered the idea. With more than a little regret, Lindsey decided that he would need a clear head for this more than he would need the artificial calm from a sedative. He could always take something stronger later.

With no idea what the appointment would be about, Lindsey couldn't make the specific preparations that he preferred. He couldn't have the necessary forms ready, with someone ready to bring in the relevant documentation and legal precedents. He disliked feeling so unprepared. Not only did it leave him feeling awkward, unprepared and inefficient, it wouldn't reflect well if any of the senior partners decided to look in on his performance. There were a great many things that were preferable to giving he senior partners a poor impression of his abilities.

Eventually, three o'clock rolled around. His intercom buzzed, with the receptionist's sweet and lightly accented voice made metallic by the transmissions, "Mr. MacDonald, your three o'clock is here. Shall I have them sent up?"

"Yes, Delores, send them up right away," he responded, gritting his teeth at the way her too-sweet voice grated on his nerves.

He just hoped that this wouldn't turn into a disaster.

* * *

Kate Locksley walked along the sidewalk, approaching the large building where Angel and his people worked. The sunglasses helped, since working nights kept her out of the sun most of the time, but the sunlight helped her nerves. That poor lawyer…

Part of her wished that she could be a slacker with this case. Just let enough be enough and not pursue any hunches or tangents. However, she was certain that this connected with the murder of Kent Lanomer somehow, and she suspected that the people here would have an idea how.

Opening the door, she walked inside, glad that he daytime hours and the sunlight pouring through the windows would prevent her from talking to Angel. He unsettled her at the best of times, and having been considering such a gruesome case… No. No vampires if she could avoid them.

Cordelia Chase was sitting behind the desk, with a stack of leather-bound books beside her. She wasn't filing her nails, or talking on a phone, or doing any of the various non-work things that television loved to show secretaries doing with their time.

Raising her voice slightly, Kate called, "Afternoon, Miss Chase. I wanted to ask a few questions about a case, and I suspect you and your colleagues may know some useful information."

"Are you allowed to go into details?" Cordelia asked, one eyebrow arching.

"Not too many, but I think we'll both be happier that way," Kate leaned against the desk, unsurprised to see a few small vials of a clear liquid – probably Holy water – and a wooden stake. She wouldn't be surprised if there was another weapon tucked out of casual sight. "I'm bending the rules a little just by being here."

"Right," Cordelia looked doubtful, and shook her head. "Should I get Wesley for this?"

"If I say that there is a connection to the trial of Scooter Dee, does that give you an answer?"

Cordelia winced, and mumbled something that contained the words wait, Wesley and gross. Kate suspected that Cordelia had a few ideas already as the brunette left the room.

It was only a few moments before Cordelia returned, Wesley in tow. "Kate said that she has a few questions, and mentioned the trial. Remember, that one?"

"I was attempting to forget," Wesley sighed and produced a small bottle of greenish grey pellets from one pocket. They looked like some sort of dried herb compacted into a pill. "Before you begin, let me recommend these to you."

"What are they?" Kate took the bottle, using the least bit of pressure and grip that she could to hold it as she looked at the pills. "And why would I want them?"

"If you take one about an hour before you go to bed, it will prevent you from dreaming for the next twelve hours. It isn't recommended to take more than three within a ten day period, generally twice a week works. It also leaves you less likely to dream the next day, or night, and your dreams tend to be less coherent and harder to remember."

"What is it made from, and what sort of side effects are there?" the greenish grey pellets suddenly seemed far more interesting.

"Suffice it to say that they are all natural ingredients, and as long as you aren't allergic to citrus, tomatoes, or chamomile you should be fine. The ingredients are not addictive separately or together, though the effect can be quite appealing for some individuals," Wesley shook his head, and admitted, "I've been using them myself off and on."

"Were you at the trial of Scooter Dee?" Kate asked. "Can you tell me if there was anything unusual that happened?"

"Let me tell you what I know about the death of Kent Lanomer, what we suspect, and what happened at the trial…" Wesley paused, and then pointed at the small bottle again. "I've found that a glass of water helps. It's best to swallow it whole if you can, the taste is rather unpleasant. Others suggest that if you chew the pills, it strengthen the effect. I leave that choice to you."

Kate produced a tablet to take notes, and as Wesley started to talk, she wrote. The more he explained, the better those greenish grey pills sounded.

……………………………………………..

Lindsey MacDonald blinked as the door opened. The trio of beings standing outside his office was quite memorable, and not one of the three would pass as human. The first one was a bipedal frog in a trenchcoat. The second was another one of the mango hued googly eyed whatever Scooter Dee was, though this one had long reddish hair instead of a short tuft, and was garbed in a pressed suit in a dark orange. The last was a shaggy brown ogre with a thick eyebrow and jutting fangs.

Lindsey assumed that they were, in order, Kermit Frogg, Skeeter Dee, and the ogre was some sort of bodyguard, or perhaps the looming threat of pain and woe. Trying to look professional and calm, he gestured at the chairs, and asked, "Will you have a seat? How may I help you this afternoon?"

"Skeeter and I had a few papers that we wanted filed, and we figured that it would be best to make it official, and get a bit of warning for any potential issues," the frog spoke.

"My brother wanted to reopen the Muppet Theater," the yellow woman spoke, her words confirming that she was Skeeter Dee. "While I think that's a great idea, I don't know anything about running a theater, so I wanted to sign it over to Kermit."

The frog placed a folder on the edge of the table, "Skeeter and I came up with a deal that we were both willing to sign, and had a friend of ours put it into legalese, but that friend isn't a professional lawyer. We also hoped that you could take care of all the necessary filing for this, and the permits for the theater."

"This was your brother's dream? Are you certain that you want to do this with him… confined?" Lindsey asked.

"We're certain that a part of Scooter will always be with us at the theater," Kermit answered.

"He went to so much trouble to make the theater happen again, how could I put a stop to that now?" Skeeter Dee asked, her big eyes wide and teary.

Lindsey nodded, hoping that Kermit's words were just metaphorical. "I'll get those papers started then."

In the back of his mind, he desperately hoped that the Muppet Theater wouldn't become a client for Wolfram & Hart. He suspected that they would be bad for his sanity if he dealt with them very often.

End Muppet Contracts 7: the Show Will Go On.


	18. Moving Into Place

Author: Lucinda

this installment is rated T

eighteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them. The Count & Scooter are the creations of Henson Puppetry.

Distribution: by permission. If you have permission for one of the earlier stories, then you have permission for this vun as vell.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc18..mc18..mc18..

There was only the scent of rose and 'fresh ocean breeze' candles, the only noise from a recording of gentle ocean waves, and her own humming as she tried to calm herself. With Kent Lanomer dead, her acting career had just taken a brutal jarring, and might even be dragged to a halt. Few people would work with a pig, and while it was quite satisfying to chop them down or toss them through a wall, those actions didn't get her jobs. Closing her eyes, she tried again, "Ommmm... I don't know why this is supposed to relax meeeeee... ommmmmm..."

The tap at the door disturbed Miss Piggy's tranquil room. She opened one eye, glaring at the door. "This had better be good."

When the tapping repeated, she got up from her cushion, not quite stomping towards the door. After all, ladies should be graceful and elegant, and stomping was neither. The locks rattled as she opened them, and she flung the door open, prepared to shout whoever was bothering her into a humiliated retreat.

This plan changed when she discovered just who was tapping at her door.

"Kermie! How wonderful to see you!" She grabbed him, yanking him inside her apartment and shut the door behind him.

Flashing a dazzling smile, she asked, "What brings you here today?"

"I thought that I'd offer you a job," Kermit rubbed at his head, and sighed, "Scooter was trying to reopen the theater."

"I didn't know that he'd talked to you about it," Miss Piggy frowned, thinking back to her conversations with Scooter. Had he mentioned working with anyone? He hadn't mentioned Kermit, she would have remembered if they'd talked about her darling Kermie...

Kermit shook his head, and in a soft voice explained, "Reopening the theater was Scooter's last wish. Since he can't finish the project, someone else needs to do it instead."

"Scooter's last wish... is he... did he..." Miss Piggy gaped, trying to find a tactful way to ask what had happened to Scooter. He'd looked so healthy the last time they'd talked. He hadn't mentioned anything to her... "How did he croak?"

"Terribly off-key, but..." Kermit mumbled and shook his head, and then in a louder voice, "Scooter can't work on the project anymore. We thought that since he'd put in so much effort... Anyhow, I wanted to ask if you would like to come back to the theater."

A chance to return to the theater? To do the work that she loved, on a regular basis, with variety, with challenges, with such an assortment of co-stars... With her darling Kermie... There was really only one thing to say.

She squealed, "Ohhhh, I'd love to!"

* * *

Wesley stopped, looking at the bright poster on the wall of a brick building. It had strange faces with large eyes, it had clouds in several colors... and chickens.

He didn't want to know why there were chickens.

"Grand opening soon... the New and Improved Muppet Theater. Starring Miss Piggy, Gonzo the Great, and Electric Mayhem. Featuring the talents of Rolf, Link Hogthrob, and Fozzie Bear. Effects by Mad harry and Muppet Labs? With special guests the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps?" Wesley read the poster, his sense of alarm and worry growing with every word. It wasn't helping that he knew he'd heard of that ballet company before...

He was cursing in twelve languages by the time he reached the former Hotel Hyperion.

While it was obvious that Wesley was furious, the fear was also there. What was less obvious was exactly what he was so frightened by - the idea of a permanent base of Muppets, or the chance that this would bring forth regular visits from the Count to this area. Perhaps both.

Wesley was half way to the back offices when he remembered where he'd heard of the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps. His cursing broadened to include Latin and Russian, and he started snarling for Angel to get his undead ass down here.

He knew that those Muppets were no good.

* * *

That night, Brentwood Hollows had a visitor. Unlike most, this visitor did not arrive during the day, when most of the residents would be awake and talking, if not always lucid. At midnight, most of the residents were asleep, though Mr. Anderson sat in a corner, shouting about agents, matrices, and the words Trinity and Nebuchanezzar. A few aides and nurses were awake, with the nurses filling out some of their paperwork and the aides checking to make certain that the residents hadn't managed to get anything sharp or long enough to hurt someone. This visitor was short, with dark hair that had once been brushed back and now sticking up, dressed in very old formal wear, complete with a cape and a medallion, a monocle set over one eye. Perhaps the most alarming things would be his large fangs and purple skin. Or his lack of reflection in the darkened windows.

Moving through the hallways, Count vonCount could feel the weak barriers at the doorways to the private rooms. For most of them, he would need to pass through a residential barrier before he would be in a room, and that would make things more difficult. Quite sufficient to prevent most vampires from gaining access to the rooms, which would be a protection for the residents if they were actually in their room. Other rooms had no such protection. One day he would have to do a study to determine the cause of such inconsistency, it could be fascinating…

The front doors had opened after a mere three thousand, eight hundred and seven attempts, granting entry after he'd entered four-two-three, the ancient sphinx's riddle. The code did leave him curious about the origins – was he dealing with a scholar of the classics, or was the code mere chance? Knowing that humans were creatures of habit, he attempted the same code at the doors to the section where Scooter Dee was held.

The fact that they opened to that code took much of the challenge from fetching Scooter Dee from this facility.

It was simple enough to cloud the mind of the nurse, who was more focused on her paperwork and a dreadful lack of coffee to worry about why someone who claimed to have transfer orders for Scooter Dee would be arriving so late, or alone, or without a gurney or wheelchair. "Yes, I assure you that the facility vhere Scooter Dee vill be transferred to is most secure. He vill not be vandering avay."

He did have to shake off a well-meaning aide who asked one, two, three times if he needed someone to help him back to his room. "NO, I am not a resident, I am here to collect somevun. Thank you."

"Scooter Dee, I vant to ask you a few qvestions about the new theater," he spoke firmly, focusing his mind on Scooter coming to the door to speak to him.

"I have all the permits lined up, and I've been working on a schedule and list of guest stars…" Scooter came to the doorway, one hand clutching a fistful of papers, one showing a squiggle in green crayon. "Wait a minute, you aren't the city building inspector!"

"No, but if I remember correctly, the Inspector is supposed to be there on Tuesday. Something about final viring inspections, and box seats…" The Count shrugged, seizing Scooter by the throat. "You vill not need to vorry about the theater. There vill be plenty to keep your mind busy."

Having throttled Scooter into quiet, meek unconsciousness, the Count simply hoisted the orange Muppet over his shoulder and carried him towards the door. There would be plenty of time for them to have long discussions on the theater, and the many reasons why the Count was not pleased with Scooter Dee. Though since Scooter had been so worried about the theater, he would have to arrange something… Yes, he would make an arrangement so that Scooter could keep an eye on things, and perhaps keep a hand in as well…

End Muppet Contracts 18: Moving into Place.


	19. Look Around

Author: Lucinda

this installment is rated T

nineteenth in the Muppet Contracts series

Disclaimer: anyone you recognize does not belong to me, though I may not be able to give all the legal who's that do own them. The Count & Scooter are the creations of Henson Puppetry.

Distribution: by permission. If you have permission for one of the earlier stories, then you have permission for this vun as vell.

Notes: Angel Investigations have been working on discovering the killer of acting agent Kent Lanomer. They had no idea what they'd stumbled onto when they started...

mc19..mc19..mc19..

After much debate and argument, Angel was sent to investigate the new Muppet Theater, which would be opening 'soon'. He'd lost the real resistance when Wesley had reminded him about the ghostly Blinnikov Ballet, but hadn't immediately admitted defeat. Then again, Angel had been quite disturbed by some of the things occurring with the Muppets and the Count as well...

He went that night, figuring that at least he could inspect the building. There were the posters, promising music, vaudeville style variety acts, live comedians, dancers, and new special guests each week. And yes, the posters promised the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps. His mind had drifted briefly, lost in twirling ballerinas and soft music.

The deep voice pulled him from his ballet-inspired reverie.

"What're you doin' here?"

Reminding himself that he didn't need to breathe, and his heart hadn't beat regularly for several centuries, Angel turned to face the speaker. He found himself looking at a shaggy brown chest. Looking up, he realized that he was facing a shaggy brown ogre, with a heavy eyebrow and jutting fangs. The sort of ogre that could rip him apart with about as much effort as it took him to kill a fledgling struggling out of the grave.

"I was curious about the new theater... you'll really have the Blinnikov Ballet? Do you know the dates for their performance yet?" He tried not to shake, panic, or offend the ogre.

"You'd have to talk to the Boss about that," the ogre rumbled.

Angel nodded, "That makes sense... would there be a good time to ask, or should I call at another time?"

One shaggy hand reached out, grabbing Angel's arm just below the shoulder, "We can talk to him now. Need to ask him what to do about intruders..."

The ogre towed him into the building, calling to a shaggy something with beady eyes in a demonic language. Angel only understood a couple words - Master, where, and intruder.

By the time the ogre was approaching an office, Angel couldn't feel his arm. The ogre tapped the doorframe, rumbling, "Boss. I found this guy outside, he wants to ask about the ballet."

"Why don't you let him sit down, Sweetums. There's no reason not to let him ask a couple questions," the mild tenor seemed completely calm.

For a moment, Angel was paralyzed with shock. First, the voice from the office had just called that towering shaggy ogre... Sweetums?!? And secondly, if the voice came from the shape he saw moving inside, the speaker was barely higher than his own waist. How in the seven hells did something that small hold control of an ogre?

"Behave," the ogre growled at Angel, wagging one clawed finger, and then walked away.

Angel took a step into the office, his eyes adjusting and he blinked, realizing that the small boss was, in fact, a bipedal frog.

Oh hells, this had to be Kermit, the Count's frog! You did not mess with the Count's frog!

He must have made some sort of sound.

The frog looked at him, one webbed hand gesturing towards a chair, while the other closed a small paper box that held a faint scent that reminded Angel of blood gone slightly off, or perhaps blood that wasn't quite human. "Why don't you sit down in the chair, it might be more comfortable."

"You must be Kermit, the Count's.... ummm," Angel's brain frantically signaled his tongue to edit those words before he got killed or worse. "The Kermit that the Count mentioned."

"That's right, and I'm also in charge of the Muppet Theater," the frog nodded, looking remarkably harmless for something with such a terrifying reputation.

Demons in Sunnydale still told horror stories about what had happened when the Count had visited Sunnydale, and things had only become more terrifying and gruesome when the frog had arrived. No creature with contact with the demon communities would ever dream of taking the Count's medication or the Count's frog. The consequences were too horrible.

The words emerged slowly, and Angel wasn't at all certain that they should, "I thought Scooter Dee was organizing the reopening of the theater?"

"You could call it his last project," Kermit's voice was calm.

Angel would deny until the time he became dust that he squeaked like a mouse. Those horror stories from Sunnydale gave far too many ideas of what could happen to someone who crossed the Count, or possibly Kermit, and if framing the Count for murder wasn't crossing him…

"The plan is to open on the fifth, with the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps as our special guest for that week. We still need a couple inspections, but everything seems to be going well," Kermit offered. "You've taken an interest in the Blinnikov dancers?"

"I saw them perform once before, a long time ago. They were amazing," Angel admitted.

"The Saturday evening performances won't be starting until after sunset. The Count insisted that we had to have the option for well behaved vampires being able to attend if they wanted," Kermit replied.

"You brought back the people who had been here… with the Theater before?" Angel's eyes drifted towards the box, noticing that the bottom looked just a bit darker, as if there was a dark lining… or something dark staining the lining.

"Uh-huh," the frog nodded, placing a handful of papers on his desk from a basket. He opened an envelope, adding the papers inside to the pile, and then opened another envelope, those papers folded.

Angel thought that they looked like contracts. Job contracts, presumably for the theater, to sign in people, though he didn't know if they were for the cast or the stage crew. He didn't know what the ogre did around the theater, and wasn't about to ask. Just like he wasn't about to ask why Kermit had called the ogre Sweetums…

As the papers attempted to slide, Kermit sighed, and reached into the paper box and pulled out what looked like a glass paperweight and placed it on the stack of papers. It served quite well to keep the papers from shifting about. It also caused Angel to freeze into place from shock.

The paperweight was looking at Angel.

"An eye?" Angel found himself desperately hoping that it was just fashioned to look like an eye. That it wasn't really an eyeball set into glass… surely a real eye would have melted if exposed to molten glass… it couldn't be an actual eye… even if it did look like a bit of the optic nerve trailing behind the orb set within the glass.

"Scooter wanted to keep an eye on the theater." Kermit tossed the emptied envelopes into the round trash can.

Angel would have bolted if he hadn't been certain the ogre would eat him for trying.

Kermit produced a business card from one drawer of the desk and passed it to Angel. "You can call to ask about the scheduled special guests. If that actress on your staff changes her mind, we might be willing to schedule her in as a guest some time. Skeeter's working on setting up a website for us, but that isn't ready yet. She promised that there would be a feature to permit interested talent to inquire about guest appearances."

"The theater's really opening… the show must go on, is that it?" Angel pocketed the card, feeling like reality had just fallen sideways.

"Oh, we're definitely opening. It was far too much fun to let it fade away. I can't think of anything that I've done that left me happier than running the theater," Kermit smiled. "It has the added benefit of keeping some of my cast and crew out of trouble."

"Less trouble is always a good thing," Angel mused.

He got out of there as soon as he could without offending the frog or the ogre. Less trouble for the cast and crew… as long as nothing threatened the Theater. He could imagine what might happen to a threat. Considering that ogre, a threat could die horribly, with the body never being found. After all, ogres could eat many things, and there were hundreds of stories of ogres eating humans. Angel didn't want to think about the fact that this was because humans tasted good...

Once he'd made it back to the safety of the Hyperion, Angel locked the doors behind him. It didn't make him feel much safer.

End Muppet Contracts 19: Look Around.


	20. Unofficial Investigation

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Kate Locksley blinked at her captain, her mind turning over the words that she thought he'd just said. Part of her was certain that she was developing a hearing problem. Then again, with the way things had gone strange and terrifying and began defying sense since she'd met a vampire detective who called himself Angel, she could have heard what she thought she'd heard. Best to make certain.

Trying to keep her words neutral and her tone calm instead of outraged shouting or hysterical laughter, she tried to get some sort of verification. "Sir, did you just tell me that you want the investigation for the death of Colin Finnegan to stop?"

"Not precisely, Locksley. I said that it has to stop. It started with a few not officially orders from above. I asked a few questions and... and my questions were answered. You do not want those answers," he swallowed, and gave a shudder before whispering, "now that I have them, I don't want the answers."

"Did these answers include a name, or a reason?" Kate had an ugly suspicion or three forming, and had a feeling that she knew where she could get a few answers of her own. Then again, if she asked, and they answered... sometimes the answers weren't things you really wanted to know.

"I was told that sometimes it's best to let things go and not to draw attention, and I was also advised to leave the Muppet Theater alone, lest certain attention wander my way." He paused, and rubbed at his temple, "I was also told that the administration of the theater knew nothing of those advisements that I was given."

Kate frowned, some of her suspicions taking on an uglier cast. "If that's your recommendation, there are a few things that I can give a higher priority, sir."

"I was told that poking too deeply or forcefully into this case could be dangerous to our health," he admitted. "Not just you, not just mine. The Department. I don't want to push and find out if that was a bluff."

She had no idea how to respond to that. Either someone was making a very bold, very arrogant bluff, or this was dangerous on a whole new scale.

"Do you understand, Locksley?" his voice was flat, but his eyes were full of too many words.

"I understand, sir," Kate whispered. What she didn't say was that she was certain that she would need to go talk to the people at Angel Investigations again. She had the feeling that they might be able to make a few things make more sense, even if she was certain to her bones that she wouldn't like any answers they could give her.

She had Thursday off from work, that would be the best day to go and thoroughly disturb herself and gain a few new causes for nightmares. There was no need to rush that, not based on what she knew right now.

end part 1.

Thursday was not going to be a great day. She'd almost forgotten that she'd scheduled an appointment with her doctor and her dentist for that day, knowing that she wouldn't have to work. A total of three hours in awful waiting rooms with dull, old magazines and a television in the dentist's office playing some cheesy soap opera that she didn't known and wasn't certain she wanted to follow… though apparently Kayla was having an affair with Richie and suspected that she might be pregnant, Ben had a drinking problem, Scott and Sara were in debt to their eyebrows and someone was claiming to be Daphne's half brother – which would entitle him to a portion of her just deceased father's vast estate.

That delightful experience – though she had no cavities and was advised to floss more often – behind her, Kate made her way towards the Hotel Hyperion, now home base for Angel Investigations. Along the way, she noticed a flier stuck to a telephone pole. The faint breeze made it flutter just enough at the explosion resembled fire…

"The new Muppet Theater? What kind of name is Miss Piggy? Special effects by Mad Harry and Muppet Labs?" Still puzzled by the flier, Kate moved away. The googly eyes were giving her the creeps. "And what's with the chickens anyhow?"

Kate tried to push the weird flier to the back of her mind as she walked up the steps to the Hotel Hyperion. Granted they had cases so weird and disturbing that the few she knew about had left her with nightmares, but Angel Investigations certainly had space! The building had once been a three hundred room hotel, with all the luxuries available in the nineteen fifties, before it had been abandoned. She knew that there had to be more to things than race riots gone out of hand – why else would the owner or their heirs not have done something with the building? Instead, it had sat abandoned for decades, until Angel had set up his team inside. She suspected that there was more to that than Angel throwing money at the hotel… and it was probably strange and disturbing, involving gore and supernatural stuff, just like so many other things involving that vampire.

"Detective Locksley, you're looking… in good health," Wesley Wyndham-Price called, looking politely concerned, though he had a black eye and some bandages wrapped around his arm, the edges just peeking below his sleeve.

"Thanks," she was not going to snap at him because of the soap opera at the dentist's office. "I had a strange conversation, and it left me with a few questions. I was wondering if you and the others here could answer some of them?"

"Perhaps, it really depends on what you're asking about," he allowed.

"I shouldn't be telling you any of this. I shouldn't be talking about this with anyone. But there are some questions…" Kate let out her breath slowly, trying to focus and gather her thoughts. "You know about the death of Kent Lanomer, how Scooter Dee went on trial for it, and how Scooter Dee's lawyer Colin Finnegan… how a body was found in Finnegan's apartment?"

"Yes. Shall I assume that you've identified that body? And this has a connection to your questions?"

"Forensics are ninety-seven percent sure the body was Finnegan and that they found most of him," Kate shuddered at the memories, trying to push them away again. "And that's all I want to say about the body."

"Most? I… don't want to know," his whisper and the faintly green cast suggested that whatever he was imagining was ugly.

"My department was unofficially advised that investigating Finnegan's death could be bad for our health."

"Did this message have any other…" Wesley paused, as if searching for the right words a moment before continuing, "I suppose they might have been called friendly warnings, or helpful suggestions?"

"To leave the Muppet Theater alone, and that the theater's management wasn't aware of the warnings that were passed to our department." She tried not to growl at Wesley. "Is that the one with the fliers with explosions and chickens? And… googly eyes?"

Wesley gave a small shudder, muttered something that Kate suspected was swearing, though she couldn't even name the language, and spoke in a more normal voice, "Yes. The Muppet Theater is run by a being called Kermit the Frogg, and the books are kept by Count vonCount… I'm sure that you remember what I told you about him. Many of the Muppets have googly eyes. I don't know about the chickens or explosions. Scooter Dee is… or perhaps was a Muppet."

"And the warning?" Kate wasn't certain that she wanted to ask, but a part of her feared that she would need to know.

"I can only guess. I suspect that Count vonCount is once again keeping the books for the Muppet Theater. I know that he has a very intimidating reputation among vampire and demon circles. To be blunt, he terrifies most of them into cowering submission. The murder of Kent Lanomer was patterned after something that the Count did a little over a century ago, in Williamsburg, Virginia. He may have been responsible for Colin Finnegan. My guess is that if he is involved with the Muppet Theater again, someone wants him to be undisturbed. From what I've gathered, he tends to be very methodical, thorough, and final in his approaches to solving problems," Wesley sighed before muttering, "I looked into the records on Count vonCount. I wish that I hadn't. There was a note that he practices runic divination using carved foot bones, and that freshly carved bones are preferred. I found it more disturbing that he may not kill the one who had the bones when he collects them."

Kate fought for several moments not to throw up when he said that. It didn't help that it looked as if Wesley was fighting a similar urge.

"So we don't bother him or his minions and hope that he leaves us alone?" she managed.

"From the more recent records, he calls Kermit his associate, and the Theater gets referred to as Kermit's Theater, or Kermit's minions, but yes. That is a strategy that will be followed by most of the demons and vampires as well."

"Ahhh. That's helpful to know," Kate murmured, preparing to leave the Hyperion. Normally, the end of some background questioning would be the occasion to say 'thanks', but it didn't feel at all appropriate to thank someone for giving her new fuel for nightmares.

"One more thing," Wesley pulled a business card from his pocket and passed it to her. "This is where I buy those dream suppressants."

"Thank you," she managed a smile at that.

She returned to her apartment, shutting the door, locking everything, and curled up on her chair. Why couldn't life have stayed simple, like it was before she met Angel?

end part 2.

End Muppet Contracts 20: Unofficial Investigations


	21. A Show Unlike Any Other

mc21..mc21..mc21..

Angel hated the fact that he had to wait until the Saturday evening show at the Muppet Theater. It was finally open, the Blinnikov was finally going to be performing again... and he couldn't watch until the Saturday late show on account of lethal sunburns. Sometimes being a vampire was just no fun at all.

After discovering that it wasn't possible yet to buy tickets online for the Muppet Theater, though the website looked like that was planned for the future, Angel had growled curses in several languages. His fit of sulky temper had resulted in Cordelia pulling a cross on him and demanding, "What happened? The vampire that I've been working with doesn't usually swear like that... you haven't gone evil again, have you?"

Reaching up, he'd discovered that his other face had emerged, and he took several slow breathes to calm himself enough to look human again. "I'm not evil again. The Blinnikov is performing with the Muppet Theater this week, and I want to see them."

"You want to see the Muppets?" her raised eyebrow suggested that now rather than worrying about his soul, she was concerned for his sanity.

"No, I want to see the Blinnikov. If that means going somewhere infested with security ogres, then I'll go somewhere with security ogres and be very polite," He edged along the wall, trying to get a little more distance from the cross - it left him feeling all itchy and a little queasy... and very, very guilty.

"The swearing?" Cordelia prompted.

"You can't buy tickets online yet."

"Is that all? You had me worried that you'd gone evil again because a theater run by psychotic Muppets doesn't sell tickets online yet? Just chill and get a grip," Cordelia shook her head and sighed, "All this unneeded worry is going to give me wrinkles."

"Kermit did say that they'll be in need of special guests, since they plan on different guests each week," Angel offered.

"Hell no! Get out!" Cordelia swung the cross at him, her eyes wide and her heartbeat wild. "I'm not working with those dangerous lunatics!"

"Alright! Alright, it was just a thought," Angel ducked and slipped past her, his arm stinging from being so close to a cross. With reactions like that, he'd just let Cordelia worry about her acting career or lack thereof for herself.

It was four hours before the city was dark enough for Angel to safely leave for the Muppet Theater. Another ten minutes to drive there and almost as many to find a decent parking space. As he walked to the ticket booth, which had a strange shaggy creature inside, he hoped that the show wasn't sold out. The security ogres would prevent him from causing a scene... one way or another.

Ticket purchased, Angel made his way into the theater, passing a concession stand. Even with Muppets, he doubted that it would sell anything he'd find palatable. There were several boxes, with elegant polished wooden railings and wine red curtains that looked to be velvet. Rows of matching wine red chairs filled a large auditorium, the spacing generous enough to allow even ogres to sit comfortably. He could see a couple already in the audience, prompting large open spaces. His own seat was several chairs away from the nearest ogre, but still much closer than any of the other early arrivals.

Half an hour before the show was supposed to start, a small bear walked out past the heavy stage curtains, wearing a bowler hat, a polka dotted tie, and a brown vest. Angel could feel his eyebrows rising, and he wondered just what sort of things to expect from this bear.

"Hey, hey... I see we've got some people out there already! Are you guys ready for some entertainment? Laughter? Some good jokes?" the bear had a faint New York accent.

From one of the boxes, Angel heard a raspy voice mutter, "If they're waiting for good jokes, boy are they in the wrong place!"

"I got a joke for all of you out there. Why did the skeleton cross the road?" The bear looked around, his ears wobbling and his gaping smile looking oddly harmless. "To get to the body shop on the other side! Wocka wocka wocka..."

Angel winced. From above, he could hear an old man snort, "That joke's on its last leg."

The bear grinned again, one paw, or perhaps it was closer to a hand, lifting to adjust his tie, "What is the shark's favorite sort of jelly?" He looked around, still grinning before he finished, "The jellyfish! Wocka wocka wocka…"

The old man in the box wasn't the only person to groan or make some sort of insulting commentary.

The bear held up one hand to the audience, "Wait, I got another one! Why were the melons sad?"

Before he could utter the punch-line, he was being pelted with crumpled papers and tomatoes. From the box, he could hear the old man snort, "Maybe the melons had to listen to his jokes!" Another very similar voice added, "That would make me sad."

The bear retreated off the right side of the stage. A short time later, a brown figure in blue overalls pushing a broom moved out, removing the tomato fragments and the crumpled papers. It wouldn't do for the next act to falter or fall due to vegetables on the stage.

A little while after the janitor had quietly returned to the backstage area, Kermit the Frogg emerged, one hand holding a cordless microphone and the other a couple note cards. "That was Fozzy the Bear, a comedian who has no equal. We have a wonderful show planned for all of you tonight, and it is our sincerest hope that you enjoy the show. Tonight we have as our very special guests the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps, here all the way from Imperial Russia! And now, with no further fuss, let the show begin!"

The show opened with a song and dance routine the likes of which Angel had never imagined possible. There were chickens. There were hulking ogres shuffling across the stage, their deep voices keeping the audience awake. Strange, oversized bird-things with long feathers on their heads and tails. A groups of bipedal pigs. More Muppets, including a buxom blond with purple skin that reminded Angel far too much of the Count.

Angel had no words to describe the strange, short blue creature with the feathery eyebrows and the weird nose-beak that curved like a question marks that had fallen over. This weird creature was identified as Gonzo the Great, and he recited a British war poem as he was fired from a cannon.

That was followed by a skit put on by a group of the pigs. There was a star field in the background and a very fake looking bridge, as if on some sort of space craft. Pigs in Space, with Link Hogthrobb and Dr. Strangepork had a small misadventure with an antigravity ray… that left them falling to the walls, or drifting towards the ceiling. That was all sorts of disturbing.

"Get a load of those hams!" mocked the old man.

"We already are!" countered the second voice. "Ohohohoho…"

There was another skit, with a collection of Muppets and chickens in what he supposed looked like an old western Saloon. There was a bit about sarsaparilla and Big Bad Bart and possibly the letter Y. He hoped that they'd been shooting caps or blanks instead of real bullets, but wasn't willing to find out.

As the orchestra began to play a graceful bit of Mozart, Angel was surprised to realize that there were penguins with flutes and cellos in their midst. There were several other Muppets, and even a scattering of human musicians. While it was certainly a bizarre gathering, they were talented.

The curtain lifted in the air, displaying to the audience the graceful movements of the Blinnikov. Dainty ballerinas glided across the stage on their toes, arms arched over their heads and flowers pinned to their hair, all of which was swept up into neat buns. The skittered and twirled around the stage to the Mozart, gradually joined by large birds. The birds had long, brilliantly colored feathers, and seemed to swirl into the pattern of the dance.

Halfway through the song, something began bothering the orchestra director, causing the classic precision of Mozart to deteriorate into something erratic, of uneven volume and tempo. The dancers and the birds kept their movements matched to the music, occasionally freezing in the middle of a turn or balancing on one elegant leg. After several forceful swishings of the orchestra director's baton, the small figure toppled over into the orchestra pit with a crashing noise, the slitherings of paper, and what might have been a snapping string.

"Speed up the music!" The drummer's shout held more than a little growl, and there was a thunder of drums that would have been more at home behind some of the awful metal or punk bands that Spike favored. Some of the orchestra valiantly tried to accompany the drums, abandoning the last traces of Mozart.

Angel watched as the Blinnikov and a rainbow of giant birds spun and leapt to the wildest rock music that he'd ever heard. He didn't know if he was awed at the Blinnikov's ability to adjust and keep time with this… entirely un-ballet-like music, or appalled that someone would dare try to combine their grace and elegance with this sort of musical assault.

By the end of the dance, Angel still didn't know if he was furious at the drummer who had seized control of the orchestra or delighted at the resulting display. What he was certain of was that the dance had been awe inspiring, a display unlike anything that he'd ever witnessed.

He was also certain that the Muppet Theater had to stay safe. Not simply because they had the Count keeping their books – and his temper was fearsome and legendary. Not just from the efforts of menacing security ogres. They had given people the opportunity to see the Blinnikov… to see the Blinnikov put on the sort of show that no classical performance could equal. And it was a well known fact that sometimes acts returned to welcoming theaters. They might come back to this place. If they did, he'd be waiting.

End Muppet Contracts 21: A Show Unlike Any Other

End Muppet Contracts.


End file.
